


The Project

by Ronja



Series: The Project [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 272,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronja/pseuds/Ronja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss and Peeta were never reaped. During their last year of school they end up partnered for a special project. Slow burn AU and a coming of age story of sorts.<br/>Rated M for possible future content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been toying with this idea forever now and I know I said I wouldn't start serious work on this until TCYDT has been completed but I've been stuck with the flu for the past week and I thought posting this might give me some energy.
> 
> As the summary suggests this is my dive into the AU genre of Katniss and Peeta not being reaped and that I intend for it to be a slow burn. Probably a very slow burn. I'm hoping to be able to do this in my own little way yet still keep them as in-character as possible. which is always a challenge when you're merely borrowing the characters from somebody else but then again who doesn't like a challenge?
> 
> I know this is only a short opening chapter but any thoughts/comments are much appreciated!

I'm finding it difficult to concentrate on Mr. Stoker's lecturing from the front of the classroom and I can't wait for this school day to finally be over. It's getting dark earlier and earlier with every day and I know that in a few hours it will be too dark in the woods for me to be able to go hunting, and I desperately  _need_  to go hunting today. It's been five days since we last had a decent meal and the lack of food is making my head spin. I can deal with hunger, even though it's hard to go to sleep at night when my stomach is screaming for food, but I can't handle watching Prim starve. For her sake I need to hurry home once the school day has ended, change into my comfortable hunting clothes and head out in search of food. Maybe if I'm lucky I can shoot a goose late for its trip south over the winter. If nothing else, a squirrel or a rabbit might cross my path. At this point I don't care much what I manage to kill, so long as it's got enough meat on it to take the worst edge off our hunger.

My stomach growls but I ignore it and gaze out the window. Snow has begun to fall, the first of the winter, and I take it as a bad sign. Madge nudges me with her elbow and I slowly turn my face back to look at Mr. Stoker and I make an effort to focus and listen to what he's talking about.

"This May you will be done with school and heading out into the real world" he says, hands clasped in front of him.

I snort. It's not being done with school everyone here is thinking about. It's being done with the reapings. When this year's reaping is over none of us will be eligible again, meaning that we only have to survive this one last time and then we're done. I don't think any of us have been this nervous since our first year. We've made it this far. Can we really make it one more year, now with the most amount of slips we'll ever have?

"You will have to go looking for jobs" continues Mr. Stoker. "Many of you will work in the mines or take over your parents' business. You will find yourselves responsible for contributing to the household income."

I snort again and roll my eyes as discreetly as I can. Many of us have been contributing to the income for years now, in some way or other. Merchant kids help their parents from an early age; Seam kids do whatever they can to help the family scrape by. No family can afford not having every abled person help out in some way or another.

"Within a few years, many of you will be married."

At this point he's lost my interest completely. I don't intend on ever getting married. I cannot afford the kind of love that leads to marriage and inevitably the conception of children. Having Prim in the reaping is bad enough; having a child of my own in the reaping is unthinkable. I keep listening to our teacher as he prattles on but I'm thoroughly uninterested in what he has to say and I try to will the clock to tick faster so the lesson can be done and I can hurry home. I'm not even sure this monologue qualifies as a lesson in the first place. What are we supposed to be learning right now exactly?

"When you marry you will move to a new home and many of you will be welcoming your first child soon thereafter. This year, your last year of school, we have decided to help prepare you all for this big step forward in your lives."

"How are they going to do that?" mumbles a Seam kid sitting behind me. "Teach us all how to change diapers?"

"Teach us all how to make babies?" suggests a boy sitting next to him and I hear them both laugh quietly.

I roll my eyes again and rest my chin in my left hand. I don't see either how they're going to be able to help us prepare for this and in my case it feels completely unnecessary. I feel I already know most of what I need to know about providing for a household and as for practical details surrounding toasting and parenthood they could not interest me less. There's something rather off-putting about hearing a teacher tell us we'll soon be having children when, really, we still  _are_  children. What's the rush? Life expectancy in the district may not be much to cheer for but we can at least afford to wait until we're a couple of years into our twenties before we procreate.

"For the next five months you will all be participating in a special project" continues Mr. Stoker. "You will be paired up and each pair will be given a scenario based on probable life situation."

I frown and share a look with Madge. Probable life situation? What is that supposed to mean?

Madge points to me and then at herself, raising her eyebrows in a silent question. I nod. It goes without saying by now that she and I will team up for any kind of partnered project. Maybe if I'm lucky we'll have to spend some spare time working on this and we'll spend that time at her place. The few times I've visited Madge in her home I've been treated to bakery bread and homemade jam. My stomach growls just from the thought of it.

"The pairs will consist of one girl and one boy, and yes, you will, in a way, be playing house."

This catches my attention and I sit up straight. Oh no. I don't want to be paired up with a boy. I don't even know any of the boys in my class. Quickly my eyes trail over the classroom and I do a quick count, hoping that there will be more girls than boys, in which case Madge and I might still be able to team up. I'm not so lucky. It seems there are fifteen girls and eighteen boys if my count is right. Just when I think it can't get much worse Mr. Stokes adds that it's going to be ladies' choice. My cheeks burn and I want to sink through the floor and disappear. Why can't we just pull names from a hat, Effie Trinket style? How am I supposed to be able to pick one of these boys to do a project with? The only boy I'm comfortable talking to is Gale and, oddly enough, one or two of the peacekeepers but I don't know how to interact with the guys in my class. What if whomever I pick rejects me? This can't end well.

"In the interest of being fair, and to avoid any fighting over potential partners, it will be the luck of the draw that decides who chooses first" says Mr. Stokes and I wish now more than ever that he would just stop talking already. "You have until tomorrow morning to decide who you want your partner to be and you will all be paired up then. On Monday you will receive the first part of your scenario. There will be five parts in total, each adding new information such as the family expanding or somebody being laid off from work or a rain storm ruining your roof. You get the idea. You will be required to provide budget plans and write essays on various subjects, to name a few examples of what this will entail."

He keeps on talking but I stop listening. I'm feeling a knot in my stomach just thinking about this project. It was dumb enough on its own but having to be paired up with some guy I don't even know and play house with him? I get the basic point of the exercise, that we should learn to handle our finances and probably that we should get some insight to how relationships require compromise, but I don't think we'll get much out of it. I know how to feed my family in a pinch but I can't exactly suggest my poaching as a way to make ends meet and how exactly are we to learn about compromising in a relationship when paired up with someone we don't want to actually be married to? At least when people get married they choose one another and they want to make things work and they have similarities that bring them together. Pairing up with some guy at random isn't going to properly reflect that. Why should I even want to compromise for some classmate I barely know?

The class finally ends and I grab my books and shove them in my bag. I'm in even more of a hurry now to get out into the woods and get a chance to clear my head. I can only hope I'll be one of the last girls whose name is drawn and I'll have a much smaller pool of guys to choose from but with my luck I'll probably be the first one to pick. It's downright embarrassing. What if I pick some other girl's boyfriend? I don't pay much attention to my classmates' lives. There could be any number of couples in our class and I haven't got the faintest idea. I look over at Madge and wonder if she at least knows which guys are single, or which ones are complete jerks.

As I leave the classroom I hear a voice behind me.

"You okay?"

At first I don't even realize the question is addressed to me. When nobody else answers it I look over my shoulder and I'm surprised to see Peeta Mellark looking back at me, one eyebrow raised and a look of what might be concern in his eyes.

"What?" I ask.

"Are you okay? You look a little... rattled."

I scowl. The last thing I need is for some popular merchant boy to think the assignment makes me  _uncomfortable_. It does, but most of the other girls, and boys for that matter, seem to find it exciting. I don't want to come off as socially inept in comparison.

"I'm fine."

"Okay" he nods. "Good."

I turn my head to look forward again and keep moving, expecting the conversation to be over. Peeta Mellark has never said two words to me in the twelve years we've been schoolmates so there's no reason we'd have a chat now all of a sudden.

"So who are you picking?" he asks.

I turn to look at him again, scowl in place.

"Huh?"

"Tomorrow. For the project. Who's your pick?"

"How is that any of your business?" I ask, sounding so unfriendly that my mother would freak out if she could hear me.

"Curious minds want to know."

I can't for the life of me figure out why this would matter to him. There are a few guys in our class who might be concerned nobody's going to pick them and they'll end up without a girl partner but Peeta is hardly one of them. He has no shortage of friends and I know there are a number of girls in our class who probably wouldn't mind being partnered up with him for this project.

"So..." he says casually and I realize he's now walking beside me, carrying his books by using one arm to press them to his chest. "What do you think of the project? Interesting or stupid?"

"Stupid" I mutter.

"Yeah I guess" he says with a short laugh. He then seems like he's about to say something but changes his mind. He notices my not entirely friendly glare and gives me an awkward smile. "I think Mallory Grey is going to pick me."

"Okay" I say, wondering why he's giving me this information.

"Is it just me or is she a little... scary?"

I almost laugh, though I don't know why. Mallory Grey is the daughter of one of the women who work at the Justice Building and while she can definitely be a bit pushy I don't know if scary is the word I'd attribute to her.

"I guess I'm kind of wondering if you'd like to help me get off the hook, here" says Peeta, blushing a little. "If you don't have somebody else in mind for a partner, I mean."

I stop. He stops too, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking a bit uncomfortable. A lock of blonde hair hangs over his brow and I find myself wishing he would push it back with the rest of his curls where it belongs. I'm having a bit of trouble comprehending that Peeta Mellark, the boy with the bread, is speaking to me in the first place. The idea that he just asked me to pick him for a partner is mind-boggling. I never so much as thanked him for throwing me that bread all those years ago. Why would he want the first thing to do with me now? This can't be his idea of me owing him a favour. Can it? Or, even worse, is it all some kind of joke to see if I'm stupid enough to fall for it?

"Why me?" I ask after a moment, already insulted that he might be asking me because he takes for granted that I wouldn't have a clear choice in mind already.

"Because you seem smart and I wouldn't mind having a creative partner on this thing" he says. "Plus my father speaks highly of your mother so I'm thinking you're... probably a neat person, too."

I frown. His father talks about my mother? Why on earth would he do that? How would he even know who she is? Then again, my mother did grow up in town and maybe she and Mr. Mellark knew each other way back when. They are probably roughly the same age. Though I hadn't thought anybody in town would have anything good to say about the apothecary's daughter who ran off with a coal miner.

"My mother and I are nothing alike" I say.

"Okay." Peeta sounds unsure and he shifts his weight over to his other foot. "Well, maybe you can think about it? I'll see you around."

He walks off in the direction of the lockers and I watch him go, wondering what on earth just happened. Why would a merchant boy want to be paired up with me for something like this? If he wants to avoid partnering with Mallory Grey there are several other girls he could ask. Madge, for instance.

I head for my locker and put my books away. I don't have any homework to do for tomorrow except, I guess, to decide which guy I want to play house with for the following months. After grabbing my jacket I angrily slam my locker shut. This is the stupidest project I've heard of in all my life and I don't see what use I will have of it. They could have at least paired us up at random and taken some of the edge off. Maybe they want to give people who are dating someone in class a chance to pretend being married with their possible future spouse but why torment the rest of us?

I take another look out the window and see that the snow has thankfully stopped falling. On a less fortunate note I can tell that it won't be light out much longer. I need to hurry up and get home so I can change my clothes and go out hunting. At least if we can have some meat on the table tonight the day won't be a complete failure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented or gave kudos on the first chapter =) It means a lot!

The following morning I reluctantly take my seat in the classroom and rub my temple with my left hand. Already it's a bad day. I didn't manage to kill anything in the woods last night and we had to settle for broth for dinner. My head is aching and I barely got any sleep, tossing and turning as I worried about this upcoming project. Maybe I'm being silly for having such an adverse reaction to what I know is essentially just an economics exercise but I'm not comfortable even pretending that some guy I barely know is my husband. Even if it's strictly pretend and only about the numbers I will still have to work closely with some boy and constantly talk about "we" and "us". I never wanted to be an "us", not even for a school project.

I fervently pray that I will be one of the last girls called to pick a partner. I have a feeling that no matter who I pick it's going to get awkward. None of the guys have spoken more than three sentences with me over the years and whichever guy I choose it will seem completely out of the blue. How I hope the guy I end up choosing won't read more into it than what it is. Or that he won't have a girlfriend in our class!

My eyes drift over the classroom and land on Peeta Mellark. He's sitting three rows ahead of me and far to the right. I can see the back of his head and the hint of a profile. He actually  _asked_  me to pick him. I still can't figure out why, though I've been mulling it over all night. The only explanation I have been able to come up with is that I'm the only girl he figures won't have somebody in mind already, which makes me mad. I suppose I could pick him to be my partner but the truth is I don't want to. I'm not comfortable around him. The great debt I owe him will always hang there in the air between us. Would he even be comfortable around me if he had to work side by side with me for an extended period of time? It's not like we have anything in common, what with him being from the town and me being from the Seam and him being sociable and popular while I'm a grumpy recluse with fewer friends than I have fingers on one hand.

What would I even say if I was his partner? Sooner or later I would feel compelled to mention the incident with the bread six and a half years ago. Does he even remember it? I know I should have said something to him right after it happened, but I didn't, and saying something now just seems weird. On the other hand if I work with him on this for a while and I never bring up the debt I owe him that would seem rude. Unless of course he has forgotten about that day in the rain. Perhaps for him that day held no significance. Just one day among all the rest, the act of giving bread to someone on the street a mere parenthesis.

I'm drawn from my thoughts when Mr. Stoker begins the class. After the pledging of allegiance to the Capitol, which opens every school day, Mr. Stoker moves right on to the pairing up process. I'm relieved to see that he won't be drawing names on the spot. That would be far too reminiscent of the reaping. Instead he and the other two teachers involved in the project did the drawing of names at an earlier time and he now has a list where he will be filling in the name of each girl's chosen partner right next to her own name.

Mr. Stoker gets started and calls the name of a Seam girl sitting far back in the classroom. She picks the boy sitting behind me and I mentally cross his name off the list of potential partners. The more it can be narrowed down, the better.

Unfortunately for me there's only one other name called before mine. When I hear Mr. Stoker say my name I look up and immediately feel myself blush.

"Well, Katniss?" says Mr. Stoker.

"I... Uhm..." My eyes trail quickly over the classroom and then after a brief moment of panic I blurt out the one name I can think of. "Peeta Mellark."

I hear a few kids in class mumble something and I blush again and wish I had my hair down so I could hide my face behind it, something I haven't done in years. It's inevitable that a few Seam girls will end up paired with a merchant boy since there are more boys than girls from the merchant class but nobody expected it to happen so early in the list and certainly not by my choosing.

Mr. Stoker repeats the name and jots it down next to my own. My eyes go to Peeta and he has his head turned to look at me. He smiles and mouths something; I think it's "thank you". I can't seem to meet his eyes for any longer so I look away and this time my eyes land on Mallory Grey. I suppose Peeta was right about her wanting to pick him because the look she gives me almost makes me understand why Peeta finds her scary.

I focus my attention on the textbook open in front of me on my desk just to have something to occupy my mind with other than Peeta Mellark and this assignment and how awkward the following months will be. The book in front of me ought to suffice to take my mind off of that. The history of coal and coal mining. I've often wished we could learn more about the industries of other districts but it's all coal, all the time. In fact, we don't even get to learn about other districts, except what their main industry is. I'm stuck reading about coal and coal mining the same way I'm stuck living in the Seam and stuck having to do this project with a partner I never should have chosen.

More girls are called upon to choose their partner and eventually it's Madge's turn. She partners up with Harry Storm, a merchant boy I think she might be interested in. We never talk about things like that, Madge and I, but I've caught her looking at him sometimes in the cafeteria. Other girls would probably have asked her about it and wanted details but I know she won't expect that from me. It's an unspoken agreement between us that if one of us wants to talk about something like that we'll bring it up. We don't ask each other personal questions unless we know it's okay to do so.

Once everyone has been partnered up, three of the boys getting to work together on separate scenarios in which they will end up bachelors, the regular class continues and no further mention is made of the project.

Until class is over and we have ten minutes before the next one, that is.

Immediately people begin to talk about the project, many gathering in little groups to gossip about which girls picked which guys. I find the whole thing inane and tiresome and together with Madge I gather my things and quietly head for the next class, which is English. My head is still aching and I'm feeling irritated by all the noise people are making. Don't these people ever keep quiet?

On our way to the next classroom a hand on my arm stops me and I turn around to find myself face to face with Mallory Grey. Her blonde hair is pulled up in a high ponytail and her green eyes have a dark look in them as she frowns at me.

"Katniss, right?" she says.

She knows my name very well even if she's pretending not to. We may not have spoken but we've been classmates for twelve years. Everybody knows everybody's name.

"Molly, right?" I reply, just to annoy her.

"It's  _Mallory_ ,  _actually_ " she corrects me.

"Oh. Sorry."

"I'm a little curious, perhaps you could enlighten me."

"Okay" I mumble, not at all comfortable having this conversation.

"My friends and I were just wondering what caused a Seam girl to pick a guy from town to be her partner in this project. I mean, you do realize that-"

Before she can tell me what I apparently already realize Peeta's voice cuts her off.

"I think it was a brilliant idea" he says, earning him a glare from Mallory which he ignores. He walks up and stops beside me, leaving only an inch or two of space between us. "I think this whole boring thing will be much more interesting when I'm paired with Katniss. There's a whole difference-of-perspective angle to it."

"You mean lower class/ middle class" says Mallory surly.

"Being paired with someone from the Seam brings a whole other set of interesting challenges" claims Peeta and I don't know if I should be offended by that or not. "And it's not like it's unheard of for someone from town to marry someone from the Seam."

I pointedly avert my eyes as to not look at either one of them. It's not hard to figure out what couple he's referring to and I don't like hearing someone I don't really know talk about my parents that way. This is the second time Peeta has referred to my parents in less than twenty-four hours and I wish he would stop doing it. It's not like he knows my mother or knew my father.

"Oh" says Mallory, sounding irritated but a bit unsure. She cocks her neck, sending her blonde ponytail swaying. "That's what this is about?"

"Uh-huh" says Peeta casually. He turns his head as one of his friends calls him over. "See you girls later; I think Matt wants to talk to me."

He walks off, giving me a look I can't decipher, and I'm left alone with Mallory Grey. Madge has already walked inside the classroom and I'm planning to do the same thing myself when Mallory stops me once more.

"I don't know what your agenda is here but it's obvious that Peeta's is only about the project" she says.

"What else would it be about?" I ask tiredly.

"That's the spirit" she chirps.

She walks past me into the classroom and takes a seat next to two of her friends, immediately beginning to chat with them. Feeling my headache getting worse I walk inside and take my seat next to Madge. I open my English textbook and try to muster up the interest to care about adverbs and adjectives.

The class begins and I try my best to pay attention. Really though, all I can seem to think about is getting food on the table and, for some annoying reason, what Mallory was really talking about.

* * *

Sunday morning I get up early and head out to the woods. It's cold out and I'm freezing, no doubt having an extra hard time keeping warm since I haven't had a decent meal in a while. My mouth waters when I think about the game I could bring home today. I want something with a lot of rich meat on its bones, like a larger bird or even a wild pig. The dream scenario would of course to fell a deer but let's be honest, if I'm all alone it will be a waste of meat since there is no way I can drag such an animal back to town by my lonesome.

I hope Gale will be out in the woods today, not just for his help hunting. Most Sundays he is out here with me but sometimes he's too tired from his work in the mines and Hazelle makes him stay home and rest. When he first started working there he would claim that being out in the woods  _was_  his rest but now, a year and a half later, it's clear that sometimes he needs to just sit at home and do nothing and let his body relax.

I make my way to our glade and a wide smile spreads on my face when I see him sitting there, his fingers playing with a new snare. I call his name and he turns his head towards me, his smile matching my own. We haven't seen each other since last Sunday and this week has seemed particularly long. He gets up and greets me with a hug. He doesn't normally do that but I don't mind that he does. His embrace is warm and helps with the cold.

"I'm glad you're here" I tell him. "How was your week?"

"Nothing worth talking about" he shrugs. "Same as every week. Come, sit."

We take our seats on the log and Gale reaches inside his game back and produces a thermos. There's only hot water with a touch of milk inside but I don't mind. It's warm and that's all that matters. Fishing my mug from my own bag I hold it out to him and let him fill it up. I hold the mug with both hands, letting the warm liquid heat the mug and by extension heat my hands.

For forty-five minutes we sit there in comfortable silence, waiting for game to come by and watching the sun begin to rise. Then we start to get really cold and Gale suggests that we go check the snares and at the same time increase our body heat. Together we head down the familiar paths, both of us constantly alert for any possible animals that we might send an arrow through.

Two hours later we're back in the glade, both of us in great spirits. It's still cold, snow has begun to fall, but we have three squirrels and two rabbits in our bags and we know both our families will be eating tonight.

"I miss being out here every day" sighs Gale wistfully, leaning back against a tree trunk, letting his game bag drop to the ground.

"I'm trying to savour it" I reply. "Seven more months and then I'm out of school, too, and forced to take a job."

"What if you didn't have to take a job?" asks Gale after a bit of a pause.

"Don't be ridiculous" I snort. "I'll be eighteen going on nineteen, hopefully surviving my last reaping, no longer eligible for tesserae. I have to feed my family somehow." He looks like he's about to reply but I laugh shortly and shake my head. "You know what they've got us doing in school? A project where we're paired up in pretend marriage and have to work out our financial situation."

"I remember that project" nods Gale. "Waste of time."

"What? You did that, too? They told us this was the first time."

"Well it's not. Every senior class does it. Three wasted weeks, if you ask me."

"Three weeks? We have to keep it up for five months."

Gale whistles.

"I guess that's the new part." He harks. "So who are you partnered up with?"

For some reason my cheeks feel red. I hope it's just the cold, or at least that Gale will write it off as such.

"Peeta Mellark" I tell him while staring at the ground, the name coming out as more of a mumble than a clear answer.

"I don't know who that is."

"Do you know  _any_  of the guys in my class?" I retort, raising my eyebrows. "Actually you do know who he is."

"Wait... One of the baker's sons?"

"Yes."

Gale nods slowly.

"A merchant. Was it your pick?"

"Yeah" I say warily, wondering what all the questions are about.

"I get why you picked him" says Gale. "You've seen him a couple of times when we're there to sell his father squirrels."

"I see him every day at school" I point out. I don't want to talk to Gale about Peeta so I turn the focus over on him. "Who was your partner?"

"Elsie Blum."

I shrug. I don't know who that is. Probably one of the first Seam girls who to pick partners if it was ladies' choice that year too. I can imagine most of them having wanted to team up with Gale.

"It's a shame we weren't in the same class" says Gale. "It would have been a lot more fun doing that project with you."

I frown and wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to keep warm. Would it have been fun working with Gale on this project? Gale is my friend and for that reason I think it would have been easier to work with him than any of the other guys but because he's my friend I don't know if I'd be able to pretend he was my husband, even if pretending only extends as far as having to agree on a budget.

"Either way it's a stupid project" I say.

"Well you picked a merchant to partner up with so at least you'll have a better income than most other Seam girls" Gale says, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "Unless they send you both to live in the Seam."

"I suppose. I don't care about that, though. It's all just make-believe."

"It's stupid" Gale says with a nod. "Come along, I can see you're freezing. Let's head to the Hob and see if we can trade the squirrels for some of Sae's soup."

"Why not go to the bakery?" I ask. Usually we offer the squirrels to Mr. Mellark first.

"I want soup" says Gale.

I wouldn't mind a bowl of soup myself so I grab my game bag and follow Gale as he heads back to town. The snow has stopped falling but about an inch remains on the ground. My fingers are ice cold and my gloves have several holes in them. I can get by anyway but it worries me that Prim's gloves are in as bad shape as mine, being an old pair I used to wear to the woods. This afternoon, after my rabbit has been skinned, I think I'll head back to the Hob and see if I can trade the fur in for a pair of gloves. The fur itself can be made to really nice ones but I don't know how to make gloves and if I want a pair made from the fur I've got I need to pay for the work. Better to trade what I have and get a pair of gloves in return, a pair I might be able to bring home to my sister this very afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third chapter will be considerably longer than the first two but it won't be posted for a while yet. I hope to complete TCYDT first but at the very least that story will have an update before this one does. Hopefully "Labyrinth" will get an update as well during that time.
> 
> Thanks for reading and please share your thoughts and comments!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I've updated my other two multi-chapter stories I decided to go ahead and work on chapter three for this one. As promised it's a more "full-length" chapter than the previous two and has considerably more Katniss/Peeta interaction. For good and for bad ;)

On Monday morning I am nervous to go to school. Since it's the first actual day of the project we will get the last two hours of the day devoted to it, which means I will have to spend two straight hours in the company of a boy who isn't Gale. I will have to make some form of small talk, which I am awful at, and at least appear to be sociable and friendly so that we can work together. I'm not good at that. In fact I am horrible at making new friends and I don't know what to say to somebody I barely know.

Especially not when the somebody in question is the boy with the bread.

As I study my reflection in the mirror and try to get my braid to look okay I tell myself that it might not be so bad. Peeta is a lot more sociable than I and doesn't seem to have any trouble making new friends. People like that seem to have an ability to at least carry a conversation for a while and think of things to say. With any luck we will be able to start the project without too much awkward silence between us.

On the other hand, he might be  _too_  sociable and expect me to chit-chat with him the entire time. I don't chit-chat. One of the reasons why I'm happy to be partnered with Madge is that she doesn't feel the need to fill every silence with talk. If Peeta expects me to be talkative then he's in for a disappointment and chances are we'll end up annoyed with one another. I should have picked one of the Seam boys who sits in the back and barely speaks a word. That would have been a better match for me. There's no way this is going to be an enjoyable project and knowing that it's going to last for months gives me a very unpleasant knot in the pit of my stomach.

"Aren't you ready for school yet?" asks Prim, walking in with her backpack already flung over her shoulders.

"Almost," I say, comb in my mouth.

"What's taking so long?"

"I can't seem to get the braid right," I answer, finally tying up my hair and grabbing the comb to set it down on the vanity.

"Looks the same as always," shrugs Prim. "Can we go now?"

I take another look at myself in the mirror and sigh. Yeah the braid looks fine but my cheeks look hollow and my eyes sunken, not to mention their grey colour seems especially dull today. I usually don't care about any of that but maybe I'm just getting tired of showing up at school every day with my poverty written on my face. I'm not the only kid in class who knows what starvation means but I can't help wishing sometimes that I could look like the more properly fed merchant kids.

Especially if I am to pretend to be living with, and therefore supposedly equal to, a merchant boy.

* * *

Somehow I make it through the first hours of school without the knot in my stomach getting too tight but I do my best to avoid looking at Peeta. When I first arrive in the morning I think I can feel his eyes on me but it must be my own imagination. In my last class before the project begins I focus very little on the subject at hand and a lot more on trying to think of things to say to Peeta so he doesn't think I'm too awkward and socially inept. What does a person from the Seam even have to say to a person from town? What do we have in common? The only things that spring to mind are school and the Hunger Games, which are both terrible topics to talk about. Even the weather would be better to talk about and that topic would only get us through thirty seconds or so.

When at last it's project time Mr. Stoker calls us up pair by pair and hands each one their first scenario. I don't look at Peeta when we go and get ours, instead I stare down at the floor and let him take the envelope Mr. Stoker holds out. We've been told we can either stay in the classroom and work or we can go to the assembly room. The assembly room has several round tables where you can sit and work and many Seam kids stay and do their homework here during winter because they don't have enough light at home to get it done. Peeta walks out of the classroom when we've gotten our scenario and I follow him without a word, assuming the assembly room is where he's headed.

We don't talk on our way over there. I bite my bottom lip, resisting the urge to bite my finger nails instead, and wonder if I should be the first to say anything. Peeta makes no attempt at conversation and seems almost as uncomfortable as I am which, oddly enough, is comforting. I wonder if he too noticed the looks some of our classmates gave us when we got up to get out scenario. It seems both merchant kids and Seam kids alike find us working together to be odd. I wonder if Peeta cares about that. Perhaps he likes it. People find the oddest things to be thrilling.

We reach the assembly room and he heads straight for one of the closest tables, tossing his backpack on the wooden surface and taking a seat. I sit down, leaving one empty chair in-between us. Then I wonder if that's a weird thing to do when we're supposed to be working together on this. Oh God, I hope he doesn't think we'll be sitting closely together, leaning over the work. I'm not comfortable being so close to someone I barely know.

"So," says Peeta, showing no reaction to my choice of seat. "Time to pretend to be adults. Isn't this going to be fun?"

He's probably being sarcastic but I'm too uncomfortable to be sure. I put my bag down on the empty chair between us and finger my braid nervously. We're supposed to spend at least one class each week on this project, at some points more, but according to the teachers we have to be ready to put in some spare time as well. It has just dawned on me that Peeta is from town and I've never seen him staying in the assembly room to do homework. He probably does it at home, having electric light every evening. If we have to put in spare time does he expect me to follow him home and work on it there? Or, good heavens, does he expect us to go to my place?

"Katniss?"

Peeta's voice brings me back to the moment and I blush, embarrassed that I've allowed myself to zone out like that.

"Yeah," I mumble. "Let's just get started."

"We haven't actually talked about how we want to work on this," says Peeta.

I look at him, confused as to why he doesn't just open the envelope and get started.

"What?" I say.

"They said we might have to put in a lot of extra time on this but I think we can be efficient enough that we can get the job done in class."

I scowl. What he said sounds right up my alley since it means I don't have to wonder where we will be working on this outside of class, not to mention I won't miss any time out in the woods, but for some reason I feel almost offended. Is he trying to avoid having to spend more time with me than necessary? Is he really partnering with me out of some weird fascination of the challenge, as he said the other day? Or is he fine with partnering with a Seam kid at school but doesn't want to be seen with me after hours?

"It's one of the reasons I was hoping you'd want to team up with me," continues Peeta. "You seem efficient and hardworking and smart and I think that together we can get this done without having to spend too much extra time on it. I have wrestling practice twice a week and my mother thinks that's far too much time spent away from home as it is."

Now I'm even more confused.

"You're mother thinks you're spending too much time away from home?"

"She wants me home helping out at the bakery," he clarifies.

"Oh." That hadn't occurred to me.

"You probably have better things to do, too, than throwing extra time on this weird assignment," he adds. Then he clears his throat and reaches for the envelope. "Speaking of… Want to do the honours or should I?"

"Go ahead."

"Okay, then, here we go."

He opens the envelope and pulls out a number of papers stapled together. Again I feel nervous and uncomfortable. These scenarios are supposed to be based on us, which means that if our teachers have down their own homework those papers are a What If? for Peeta and I as a couple. It feels so intimate and I'm again relieved to see that Peeta seems to find it a touch uncomfortable as well. He studies the papers for a second and then lays them out on the table, placing them in-between us so that we both can see without having to lean in too close to one another.

"So here it is," he says. He looks up at me and offers me a smile. "I don't know about you but I'd be okay just treating this as what it is. An economics assignment. With an essay or two about life's troubles thrown into it." He nods to another table. "We really don't have to do anything like that."

I look in the direction he's pointing and see two merchant kids, apparently a couple for real, solemnly sharing a cracker in a pretend toasting ceremony. The absurdity of it, coupled with my nervousness, makes me laugh a little and I'm surprised at myself. When have I ever laughed in school before? Peeta turns and grins at me, a glint in his blue eyes, and I nearly blush.

I turn my eyes to the papers and I'm surprised to see that the first one only has a brief summary telling us that we're supposed to be fresh out of school and that before we can even get pretend-married at least one of us has to find some form of employment. Because I've never planned on getting married I haven't paid attention to how the process is carried out but apparently at least one person needs to have a job before you can be eligible for a house and you can't be married unless you can have a house.

"Well this shouldn't be a problem," I find myself saying, pointing to the sentence that says one of us needs employment. "You work at the bakery."

"I don't think we're allowed to cheat like that," says Peeta.

I glare at him. This is not off to a good start.

"How is that cheating? I don't cheat."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to imply anything," says Peeta. "I'm just saying that I think we have to think realistically."

"What's not realistic about you working at the bakery?"

"I'm the youngest of three," Peeta points out. "The bakery will go to the eldest, my brother Scotti. Ryean and I will have to find something else."

I'm surprised. For one because I realize I knew his brothers' names were Scotti and Ryean, for another because I hadn't even thought that Peeta wouldn't be working at the bakery for the rest of his life. As odd as it seems to imagine him anywhere else it makes sense when I think about it. People from the Seam very rarely buy anything from the bakery, merchant people do so on a few occasions but the majority of their customers are peacekeepers and, once a year, the people who put together the District 12 stop of the Victory Tour. They obviously make enough to sustain a family of five but all three brothers can't keep working there. Not if they get married and start families.

"Right," I say, embarrassed at my failure to see the obvious. "Sorry."

"I mean, for a while I'll probably still be around. It's still my father who runs it and both my brothers are still unmarried. There's just this unspoken agreement in our house that once we marry we'll have to find something else to do, Ryean and I."

"So... What are you going to do?" I ask, feeling awkward asking the question but finding that I genuinely would like to know. I can't imagine the boy with the bread doing anything else than working at the bakery and I discover that it saddens me to think about it.

"They're kind enough to offer a list of suggestions," says Peeta, turning to the second page. I wasn't asking about the project but he either misunderstood me or is very subtly trying to steer me away from a touchy subject. Either way I appreciate that he doesn't make me feel awkward about it.

I lean over and study the list. As I read through it I can't help but wonder for the first time if there might actually be a deeper point to this whole thing than what the teachers are saying. There are jobs on this list that I never even knew were available, things I didn't stop to think that there was an actual person hired to do. It ranges from common to uncommon jobs, from cleaning at the Justice Building to working in the mines to unpacking crates at the train station. Some jobs seem downright ridiculous, like for instance being a masseuse for the peacekeepers. I don't know why but I have to fight a sudden impulse to jokingly suggest to Peeta that he pretend-take that job. It almost makes me blush again. Since when am I the type to make jokes like that? To someone I hardly know, someone I owe a great debt to? I must be more nervous than I even realize for my mind to come up with such thoughts. I'm glad I'm not the impulsive type who would actually voice that thought.

I look up at him and find that he's grabbed a notebook and a small pencil case from his bag and, as per the instructions on page one, is beginning to write the first outline they want us to turn in today.

"You know what?" he says. "I'm just going to write that I'll be working at the bakery. Maybe, in this make-believe reality, I'm the first kid in the house to get married and my parents keep me on until Scotti gets hitched, or both my brothers end up marrying women who inherit their own family businesses, and we can somehow scrape by on what I bring home from the bakery."

"Donuts and cookies?" I can't help but ask, feeling my mouth water at the mere thought even though I know this is all pretend.

He laughs, though not entirely happily.

"More like stale bread," he says.

Again I'm taken by surprise. I had never thought that merchant people would have to face hunger the way we do in the Seam but if Peeta's family are eating the bread that hasn't been sold and therefore gotten stale they can't have all that much to put on the table either. For some reason that seems even sadder than my own situation – having that kind of access to food and not getting to enjoy it.

Quickly, to not make him uncomfortable or to let myself think about it too long so  _I_  end up uncomfortable, I lean over the list of possible jobs.

"So that's the bakery for you. I'll still need something to do."

He opens his mouth to say something but he stops himself when Mallory Grey and her project partner stop by our table, presumably on their way to find a table of their own. Praying they won't ask to sit with us I focus entirely on the list of jobs, pretending it's the most fascinating thing I've seen in a long while.

"Hi," says Mallory.

"Hey Mallory," Peeta replies.

"Gotten started, huh?" she says in a surprisingly friendly tone. She walks around the table and leans over Peeta's shoulder. "Let me see how far you've gotten."

"I've just written down our names," says Peeta with a short laugh.

"Yes I see that. Shouldn't that be saying... Mr. and Mrs. Mellark?"

My cheeks burn red and I wish I could hide my face from her, from Peeta and from Mallory's partner. I am definitely not comfortable being referred to as Mrs. anything, even if it is just for a school project and even if it is just a classmate teasing. In particular I'm uncomfortable being referred to as  _Mrs_.  _Mellark_ , as up until this moment that name is one I've always associate with that witch.

"She's keeping her maiden name," Peeta replies in a casual tone.

I dare to look up from the list of jobs and my eyes fall on him. He looks perfectly calm in the face of the teasing jabs. He's probably only engaging in banter with Mallory but for whatever reason his comment made me feel more at ease. I envy his ability to disarm a biting comment with a simple casual reply.

"We should go find a table," says Mallory's companion.

"Okay," she agrees. She gives Peeta and me a smirk. "Have fun."

They walk away and find a table further off in the room, thankfully far from where we're sitting. Peeta turns to me with an eyebrow raised.

"See? Scary, isn't she?"

I almost can't stop myself from smiling. Then I point to the list of jobs as I arrange my features in a more regular fashion.

"I suppose I could help out the butcher," I say. Then I feel embarrassed. Not that I usually care about these things but couldn't I have found something a tad more... Well, something that doesn't scream that I go out into the woods and hunt even though that is against the law. Peeta already knows this about me, but still.

"Bread and bacon," summarizes Peeta and writes it down. "Okay, great. I'm going to go hand it in to Mrs. Saunders over there right away since we're also  _competing_  for the jobs."

At my confused face he turns back to the first page and points to a line that says that it's first come, first serve with the jobs. If somebody else has already requested the job at the butcher's I can't have it too.

"Want to pick a back-up?" asks Peeta.

"No, it's fine," I say, feeling that I can't bother with it anymore. It's all make-believe anyway. "You pick for me if need be."

"That's a nice, docile wife right there," he teases. Then it's his turn to blush. "I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from. I meant it as a joke but..."

"It's okay," I say, not really sure what else to say.

He hurries off to the desk by the door where one of the teachers is overseeing the process. They're really going in for making this whole thing as realistic as they can, with the competition for jobs and everything. In a way I'm impressed. My eyes drift back to our scenario and I turn the page back to the list of jobs. I glance over at Peeta who is standing in line behind two of our classmates and I determine that I have enough time to quickly copy the list. Eight months from now I will be out there trying to find a job for real. It might come in handy to have some suggestions.

At first I write down only the jobs I can see myself doing, in the interest of saving time. I don't want to be caught copying the list when Peeta comes back. I look over to where he's standing and he's just begun to talk to Mrs. Saunders. I decide I can probably write down most of the other jobs as well so I do so quickly.

Peeta returns to our table less than a minute after I'm done.

"Oddly enough working for the butcher seems like an attractive career choice," he says, sitting down. "You told me I could pick for you so I went with managing the shoemaker's storefront. I hope that's okay."

"It's fine," I nod. "What does it matter, it's all just pretend."

"I tried to score you a job at the candy shop but it turns out they weren't looking to hire hungry teenaged newlyweds."

"Can't imagine why not," I say, almost feeling the urge to smirk at his tone of feigned surprise.

"So," says Peeta, "we have officially been allowed to pretend to own a house. Not a furnished one, of course."

"What?" I groan. "Do we even  _need_  furniture? This isn't for real."

"I can sleep on the floor if that's okay with you but I'd like to at least have a table to eat at," he replies dryly. "I think it's kind of stupid too but we might as well play along. I think what they want is for us to take the cost of furniture into consideration and to keep in mind all the practical things that come with moving into a new home. It's a convoluted math problem, nothing else really."

"Fine," I sigh.

We spend the rest of the class going over the scenario and all its details and making a rough plan for what we'll work on each week. We have to write down a plan for how to furnish our house and after discussing it for a bit we agree that we would choose to wait a while with getting married until we've earned enough money at our new jobs to pay for whatever things we need when we first move in. Very quickly I find myself okay with discussing our fictional relationship and I even find myself saying "our toasting ceremony" at one point without blushing or feeling extremely uncomfortable. I'm pretty sure Peeta is the reason why I'm so okay with this so fast. He treats it like a school project and nothing else, making no double-entendres and no teasing remarks about the pretend relationship. He somehow manages to make me feel like it's a puzzle we have to solve together and I have to admit I find myself drawn in just a little bit. He does most of the talking but before the class is over I've begun to feel a little bit comfortable making my suggestions and discussing things with him.

Then he gets up to hand our first report over to Mrs. Saunders and the mood seems to change. We're done for the week, thus we have no real reason to talk to each other. While he's handing in the papers I quickly get up and pack up my things and by the time he gets back I've already got my backpack over my shoulder.

"I guess I'll see you next week," I say.

"You're leaving?"

He seems surprised that I'm already ready to go.

"Well yeah."

"Oh. Okay." He begins to gather his own things and stuff them in his bag. "Thanks for today, I guess. See you tomorrow."

"Right," I mumble, feeling like an idiot again. Of course we'll see each other tomorrow and not next week.

I hurry off before I can say or do anything else stupid. Thankfully I got through this first day without any real problems or incidents and that ought to make me feel more relaxed about the rest of the project but one okay day is not enough to quell the nervous knot in my stomach nor the thoughts that keep circulating in my mind. Peeta and I have five months of cooperation ahead of us and that means ample time for him to grow frustrated with me and for me to discover things about him that I don't like. The thought of it is actually disappointing. I don't want to know all about his faults. I want him to stay the kind boy with the bread, the one who saved my life without probably even realizing it himself. And I want to keep him from learning just how grouchy and unfriendly and unpleasant I really am. He saved my life six years ago and though he may not be aware of that I want him to at least feel I was worth that horrible black eye his witch of a mother gave him.

My stomach growls when I leave school and head for home and my mind goes from that day out in the rain six long years ago to the successful hunt yesterday. At least tonight I know there will be meat for dinner. That makes me feel a little bit better.

* * *

A week later I'm less nervous before the final class of the day. Peeta and I sit down at the same table as last week, in the same seats, and he fishes out the scenario from his backpack. We'll be working with the same scenario all month and at first that seems like a lot of time for one part of the project but, as Peeta informs me right off the bat, there's a lot to cover.

"I read through it the other night," he tells me. "It's got all kinds of things we have to look over. And get this, it says on the last page that starting with the next scenario we'll only get one or two pages at a time and we have to turn those in before we get the next few pages. Is it just me or have they spent far too much time thinking this whole thing out?"

I nod absentmindedly, chewing on my nails while I eye through the scenario. Last week when we finished up I was starting to feel more comfortable and I felt okay earlier today but right now I feel about as nervous as I did when we started out. Peeta doesn't seem to pick up on it. He grabs his notebook and turns to an empty page, jotting something down in the top left corner.

"What's that?" I ask, disapproving of him doing any work on his own without my consent or input. I'm already irritated that he read through the papers we've been given on his own, which also means being irritated at myself for letting him take all of it home and not thinking to ask to take some of it with me.

"Just putting our names down," he answers my question, not looking up at me.

"Oh."

"Let's get to work, shall we?"

I nod and read the instructions for what we're supposed to do today, then I eye through the assignments for the upcoming weeks. There's still a few details to iron out regarding how to furnish our future home but there are also things like planning the toasting ceremony and even where we would find the clothes to wear for that day. We talked about it briefly last week but it seems they expect us to put a lot more thought into it. I can't even remotely see the significance of this. Writing down a list of who to invite and planning a meal just seems like a waste of time. However I must admit to myself that there are a lot of details about getting married that I never gave half a thought to before or even knew about.

"So vis-à-vis the toasting," says Peeta, folding his arms in front of him on the table and leaning forward a bit. "How do you want to go about it? We could break it down and each do our own part when it comes to wardrobe and guest list and those things and then merge it together. We could actually save that and each do our part at home over the week and just compare notes and such for the first five or ten minutes next week."

"You've given a lot of thought to this," I note with a small scowl.

"Yeah I, uh, like to be thorough I guess," he says with an awkward chuckle. "I like to think out a strategy ahead, you could say." He gives me a crooked smirk and reaches for his pencil, tapping it against his fingers. "One thing we do need to work on together is the menu."

"The venue?" I question. "Won't that be… the house they assign us?"

"Not venue,  _menu_. What we should serve our guests."

"I know what a menu is," I snarl but the tone of my voice doesn't seem to deter him.

"It occurs to me now that I mention it that it's hard to plan a menu when we don't know how many guests we'll be having so we could perhaps settle on a specific number at least and write the names up at home."

"Peeta slow down," I say, holding up my hands to gesture pause. "Why do we need a guest list? We could just write random names and Mr. Stokes won't know the difference."

He looks into my eyes with the faintest scowl and I feel a little bit uncomfortable, as if he thinks I'm trying to take the easy way out on this.

"They may not know all the names but there is a point to it. Hey, if you want, we could just invite our families to our pretend-toasting."

"You'd be okay not having your two dozen friends there?"

"Well there is one or two I'd like to invite if I ever get married for  _real_  but this is make believe, so…"

I get the strange feeling that if we only invite our families it may seem like we're trying to keep the event on a tight budget and that gets me paranoid, wondering if that's only something a Seam couple would do. Merchants can probably afford to invite ten or twenty friends to their toastings. I don't really want to pull on that thread though so I shift focus to a different issue.

"Just pick a number of guests and we'll go from there. What I'm unsure about is the menu. Why do they want all this detail? What does it matter to them what we plan on eating? It's all fake."

"In reality it will be a monetary issue," answers Peeta carefully. "I suspect the day you get married you'll be able to serve fresh meat you felled yourself. When I get married I probably won't be so lucky."

I ponder that for a moment. Wouldn't a couple of merchant kids have enough money to buy something from the butcher shop? I suppose not since what he says suggests otherwise. The thought of planning a meal and then trying to figure out a way to afford it makes me feel very ill at ease, reminding me of how many days in my life I haven't known where my next meal would be coming from.

I jolt a little when I feel Peeta's hand on my arm but the touch only lasts a second, only to get my attention. He has clearly picked up on my discomfort but thankfully he seems to have the wrong idea why.

"Look, I know it's really awkward to sit here and write up guest lists and discuss a menu for our fake toasting ceremony. It feels so… preposterous somehow, I mean I never expected to be thinking about things like that before I'm even a legal adult. What do you say we forget about the toasting bread part and the signing papers part and the moving into a new home part and think of it as something else? Like… Like a graduation party." He gives me a reassuring smile and shrugs his left shoulder a bit. "We could pretend we're joining forces to have a celebratory shindig once we're through with school once and for all and that's why we need a guest list and a menu."

I smile faintly, finding his suggestion to be rather helpful. Not that I can imagine any circumstances under which I would ever have a graduation party, much less one together with Peeta Mellark, but it's much less meaningful and intimate than pretending to plan a  _wedding_.

"Yeah," I nod. "I could do that. Okay, so we'll plan our graduation party then."

As we begin to work on the guest list and the menu and what it all will cost Peeta scribbles on his notepad and it takes me about fifteen minutes to realize that he's been the one writing everything down the whole time. When I look around the room it seems like most other pairs have the girl doing the writing, probably because girls are generally considered to have better handwriting than boys, at least in our class. Peeta catches me eyeing him and he looks up with a confused expression.

"What?"

"How come you're in charge of writing everything down?" I say.

He looks apologetic and a little uncomfortable.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't even realize. I'm a... take-notes kind of person, I guess. I just do it automatically, so I thought I might as well..."

I realize how unfriendly I sounded just now and I hate myself for my own social ineptitude. I hadn't mean to criticise.

"It's fine," I say. "Really."

"You can write if you want to," he offers, pushing the notepad towards me.

"No, go ahead."

"Sure?"

"I don't care either way," I say shortly, once again sounding less friendly than I had intended.

"Well... alright then..."

He gives me a wary look and then finishes writing the sentence he was working on. I scowl as I look back down at the scenario. I didn't have a successful hunt yesterday and I'm feeling hungry which is probably contributing to my temper right now but I'm finding it embarrassing to be so uncouth. I wish I could be nicer to Peeta. He's being nice to me and so far it has all seemed genuine. Many people can, in my experience, put on a nice facade and treat you kindly only because they want to be polite. Peeta is one of those people who comes off as genuinely friendly. The kind of person that has a way of worming themselves into my heart. The kind of person I ought to keep a safe distance from.

Another blush appears on my cheeks. Where did that thought come from?

"This is all ridiculous," I mutter, still in an unfriendly tone, hating school for putting us through this stupidity and for making me have to interact with Peeta. I want him to like me, which means avoiding contact with him is probably a wise strategy. He took a beating to give me some bread five and a half years ago and I don't want him to think it was a mistake due to me being such an unfriendly person.

Then again Peeta doesn't seem the type who would think it was a mistake no matter how rude the person he did it for. I wonder if he ever thinks about that day, or even remembers that it happened.

"Yeah," he agrees to my statement. "Still, never know, might come in handy."

"For what?" I mutter.

"The real thing." He looks up at me with a little smile. "Sooner or later all of this might end up being useful."

"Except we're not those two," I say, nodding at the couple who had a pretend toasting ceremony last week.

"Doesn't mean we'll end up an old spinster and an old bachelor."

"At least not  _old_  ones," I say dryly, earning me a chuckle from Peeta. I can't stop myself from smiling just the slightest bit when I hear it. I've never been good at making people laugh. Even if he's only chuckling to be polite it's still kind of nice. "I guess you're right though" I continue, thinking of the list of jobs. "Maybe this will be useful sooner than I expect."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"You and Gale?" he asks casually, drumming his pencil against his pad.

I look up.

"How do you know about Gale?"

"You guys show up together at our door, selling game," he answers, spelling it out for me like I'm a complete idiot, which I kind of am for asking.

"Oh," I mutter, looking back down at my papers. Wait, why are we talking about Gale all of a sudden? I look back up at Peeta. "What about me and Gale?"

"I don't know..." says Peeta, what looks like the hint of a blush on his cheeks. "I mean... He's your boyfriend, right?"

"What? No. Why would you even think that?"

"I see you with him all the time," replies Peeta, a smile slowly forming on his face. "So you're not going out?"

"No, not that it's any of your concern." I find myself both annoyed and, despite myself, a little intrigued. "What do you mean you see me with him all the time?"

"When you come to our house and sell squirrels to my father."

"That's the occasional Sunday," I retort. "You said you see us together all the time."

He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. His hand reaches up and massages his neck and I notice that his hair curls even back there.

"I mean..." he begins. "Look, it's no big deal. Sundays I don't always have to work at the bakery and sometimes my friends and I go out and play sports on the school field. I sometimes see you guys outside the Hob on the way over. And a couple of years ago I used to see you both around those parts in the hours after school."

This is new information. I cross my arms on the table and lean forward a little. Has Peeta Mellark been keeping track of me? If so, what would that imply? I'm not sure but I can't say I dislike it entirely. Not as long as it's limited to noticing me when I'm out in town.

"You're the only kid at school who sets foot at the Hob," he continues. "Except those whose parents or grandparents do business there but none of those kids are in our class. It's kind of unusual so it's hard not to notice."

Oh. Frowning I pull my arms off the table again.

"Well Gale is just my friend," I say sourly. "The only one at this table who might actually have a toasting ceremony is you."

"Me?" says Peeta with a little laugh. "With who? Mrs. Saunders?"

Almost against my will I chuckle at his comment.

"Probably not," I manage, chalking my chuckle up to nerves.

"Seriously," he snorts, "who would I be marrying?"

"I don't know," I answer, feeling like we're charting into troublesome territory.

"If you say Mallory Grey I'm going to tell your shoemaker boss to make you work double hours," he threatens jokingly.

"Probably not her either," I concede.

"Then who?"

I squirm in my seat, wondering how on earth we ended up talking about this. Peeta's love life is the last of my concerns and definitely none of my business. It's odd though that he even questions the notion of him marrying since that is definitely the norm and he's never had a shortage of admirers.

"You'll end up marrying someone, probably soon," I hear myself answering. "You've had three different girlfriends, you'll be able to find at least one wife."

"You've kept track on the number of girlfriends I've had?"

I freeze, except for my eyes which go straight to him. He looks rather pleased and smiles at me, drumming his pen against the fingers on his left hand. Dear God. What did I just say? I didn't even reflect on the fact that I knew how many girls he has dated. Now that I think about it I even know their names and roughly when they dated. I immediately try to brush it off in my mind as the kind of thing you just sort of pick up about your classmates, given that we are a small school and no matter how uninterested you are you're bound to absorb at least some measure of gossip. I don't want to give that answer to Peeta, though. I'm afraid it might sound convoluted or like an attempted excuse.

Thankfully there's no blush on my cheeks but I still feel like I want to vanish from the face of the earth. I don't know what to say to him right now. Here I was taking some odd joy in the thought of Peeta Mellark having kept track of me over the years only to realize I've apparently been keeping track of him as well.

"Lucky guess," I mumble finally.

"Oh," he says. Clearly he's not buying it. Why would he? If it was just a lucky guess I wouldn't have reacted this way. But he seems like he wants to let me off the hook because he stops looking at me and turns his focus back to his notepad. "Okay, then. Jumping ahead to after the toasting, since the work that is left is the stuff we agreed we would do separately during the week. What do you want to do about the rodents in our fictional home?"

This particular part of the scenario feels especially stupid to me. How do rodents affect our finances? Unless the point is to see if we bother getting rid of them or if they'll run amuck and eat all our food. Even so it's pretty far-fetched.

"I'll just stick Buttercup at them." Peeta gives me a funny look. "What?" I ask in a snarl, feeling on edge after my revelation that I somehow kept track of his dating habits.

"I don't know who, or what, Buttercup is."

"My sister's horrid cat."

"Oh, that makes sense," he says. "Buttercup to the rescue, then."

We continue working on the scenario and I keep waiting for him to make another comment about my strangely accurate knowledge of his love life. He doesn't. In fact he seems to have forgotten all about it. His behaviour confuses me because I can't seem to stop thinking about it yet he smiled at me and teased me a little and now he's acting like it never even happened.

By the end of class I'm mentally exhausted and I pack up my things and leave as quickly as I did last week. Peeta thanks me for the day, just like he did last time, but I leave without saying anything back to him. I'm thankful I have a whole week until next time because Peeta Mellark confuses me and I don't quite know what to think or feel when we're working together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to her your comments =)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shortie this time. Hope it's enjoyable =)

"So how goes the project?" asks Gale on Sunday morning when we've taken a break from hunting and sat down for a meagre breakfast of about three bites each from the Hawthornes' leftover fish.

"Are you really interested in hearing about that?" I ask, chewing my fish slowly to make the taste linger longer.

"Sure" says Gale.

"It's okay" I say, shrugging a shoulder and tossing a fishbone in a shrubbery.

"And how's working with the baker's kid?"

I hesitate before I answer. It's going a lot better than I expected but I can't think of Peeta without thinking about my embarrassing comment last week. I haven't so much as looked at him since then but tomorrow is Monday and we have to sit down again for a full hour and work together. For once in my life I feel like stomach flu wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

"Peeta's nice" I answer finally.

"Maybe" says Gale sceptically. "For a merchant kid perhaps."

"Merchant kids aren't all bad" I point out, smirking at him for how his comment made it sound like he thinks they're as bad as Capitol people.

"Well you'd know better than me" he replies. "Come to think of it you seem to have a lot of friends from town."

"I don't have a lot of friends, period."

"Madge, the baker's kid..."

"Peeta isn't my friend" I argue.

"Good."

"Good?"

"I just mean... Seam people should stick to Seam people. It's easier that way. For everyone."

"Luckily my father didn't share that sentiment" I reply dryly and finish my breakfast, wiping my fingers on the leg of my pants.

"I didn't mean it like that" says Gale in a softer tone. Then he harks and balls up the paper the fish was wrapped in. "It's almost hard to imagine that little Catnip is only about eight months away from adulthood."

"Only about eight months away from my final reaping" I add. "That's what I keep thinking about. Graduating and all that comes second."

"The last year was the worst" admits Gale. "Once you're through it, though... It's a real sense of relief."

"As long as they don't draw Prim's name instead" I reply, a shiver running through me at the mere mention of my worst nightmare.

"They're not going to draw her name" says Gale reassuringly. "She only has three slips. She'll be fine."

"Let's hope" I say.

A gush of icy wind blows in and I shiver, wrapping my father's old jacket tighter around me as if that would make any difference. Autumn is giving way to winter fast. There's no snow on the ground today but the frost that lay sparkling on the ground when we met up here this morning is still there, the sun not warm enough to melt it. The smell of snow is in the air and it wouldn't surprise me if it would start falling before the day is over. A handful of trees still have their leaves but they are all covered in frost and giving way to the coldest season. It's going to be a long, cold, dark winter for sure. I can feel it in my bones.

Gale snivels a little where he sits beside me. He always seems to get the sniffles this time of year and I suspect spending several hours a day in a dark mine doesn't do much to help matters. He seems in fairly good spirits though, which I take as a good sign.

"Have you given any thought to what you're going to do after school?" he asks, blowing on his hands to keep them warm.

"I've thought about it some" I say. "Actually I copied the list of jobs they suggested for us, you know, for the project. I'm thinking it can come in handy."

"You might not need to get a job" says Gale after a moment's pause.

I look up at him with curiosity. This is the second time in a few weeks that I've heard him express such thoughts.

"The only way I'm getting out of needing a job is if I end up reaped" I say.

"So negative" smiles Gale. "So the project is at least somewhat useful?"

"Yes" I nod. "For the most part though it's a giant waste of time. They could at least have asked which ones even plan on getting married and let the rest of us do something more worthwhile."

"Listen to you" laughs Gale. "Still thinking you want to live with Prim and your mother for the rest of your life?"

I can't remember having ever expressed any such desire, at least not past the age of six or seven. Does Gale just automatically assume that I'm so attached to my mother and sister that I can't handle living under a different roof than them? I'm no idiot, I fully expect Prim to find some nice boy a few years down the line and then move out and get married. I'm not very excited about living with alone with my mother for the rest of my life but lately I've been thinking that perhaps someday I could move in with Prim and her family.

"I'm never getting married, Gale" I say, wanting to make sure he knows what I'm really talking about. "And I'm never having kids."

"Because of the reaping?"

"Yes, for one. There's no way I'm providing the Capitol with another possible lamb for the slaughter. No way I'd put myself through it, standing there year after year, petrified and powerless…"

Gale is quiet for a moment.

"I might have kids."

"Good for you" I mutter, not wild about the idea of having to see his children go into the arena either. He's made similar comments in the past though. I know he would like to have children. I just don't see how he dares to, what with having three younger siblings to feed and to agonize over when Effie Trinket sticks her hand in the reaping balls. I only have the one sibling and that is terrifying enough.

"I definitely want to get married someday" he continues. "And if I didn't live here I'd want to have a lot of kids. A large family, like my own."

"Yeah but you do live here" I point out. "There's no point in pretending that someday that might change."

I realize he's suddenly sitting closer to me on the log. I nudge closer to him to close to gap between us and get some of his body heat. He's giving me an odd look and for once I can't seem to figure out what's going on in that mind of his.

"You've never given any thought to it?" he says.

"To not living here? Come on, Gale."

"No" he says. "To being married."

"Did you not hear me just now?"

"Yeah I know how you're reasoning" he says. "You're still a kid, Katniss. You'll be eighteen in the spring and you'll be graduating both from school and from the Hunger Games but you are still a kid."

"I'm adult enough to provide for the household" I scowl.

"What I mean is you're not fully adult yet and your viewpoints might come to change as you grow into adulthood. You might realize one day that you actually do want to get married and share your life with someone."

"Not a chance" I say. "I can't afford feelings like that."

"Can't afford?" he asks, a strange tone in his voice. "Or are you just afraid?"

"What?"

"Katniss..."

There's that weird look again. It makes me uncomfortable and I suddenly feel like we're sitting too close. I get up and pick up my bow from the ground.

"We're losing valuable time" I say. "I want to come back home with enough meat to keep us fed every day of the week. Let's get moving."

"Okay" he says after a pause. "Okay, Catnip, have it your way."

What is with him today? I try my best to ignore the way he just looked at me but I can't shake the feeling that came over me when I saw it. Consequently I'm not as focused during the hunt and it's Gale that brings home our only prey of the day – a scrawny rabbit that definitely won't feed two families tonight, never mind for seven whole days. Since he killed it he gets to keep it, despite his protests that we should share. Better at least the Hawthornes fill their bellies than that nobody gets to feel full. He suggests we stay out until we get something for my family too but for once I don't want to stay out in the woods all day.

I head home with clattering teeth and with no food for my sister and mother. On days like these I'm even more convinced that I never want to start a family of my own that I would have to provide for. Watching my sister's disappointed face when I walk through the door empty-handed is horrible enough. The thought of having to see that look on the face of my children is unbearable. I can't promise anyone a childhood without hunger, or without the Hunger Games, and it doesn't feel right to bring somebody into the world under those circumstances.

* * *

"You're awfully quiet" my mother says while we're having what passes for dinner that evening. One tiny potato each and some broth cooked from the marrow of one of my kills from last week. Not nearly enough to fill your stomach. Barely even enough to take the worst edge off the hunger.

I don't dignify my mother's comment with a response. I'm rarely talkative at the table, or anywhere else besides the woods, really.

"Did something happen in the woods?" she continues to prod, oblivious to my irritation. "Did you have a fight with Gale?"

"What?" I say with annoyance, blowing on a spoonful of broth to cool it a little before putting it in my mouth. "Why would I have gotten into a fight with Gale?"

"I'm just asking."

"Are you upset because tomorrow is Monday and you have to work on the project?" asks Prim carefully.

"What project?" asks Mother.

"I told you about it two weeks ago" I say patiently even though I mostly feel like snapping at her. "They've teamed us up and we're supposed to work out a budget and things like that as if we have graduated and are living on our own."

"Not on your own" says Prim with a grin. "Married."

"Prim!" I say in an annoyed tone.

"That sounds ambitious" says Mother, taking a small bite from her potato. "But I don't see why it would make you uncomfortable."

"Who says it's making me uncomfortable? Can we stop talking about me?"

"Prim just said you might be upset because you have that project tomorrow. Are you behind on your work?"

"No" I sigh. "And I'm not upset. I just think it's pointless."

"How is it pointless?"

I hold back another sigh, knowing there's no point in trying to get out of this conversation. My mother goes through periods where she takes a keen interest in what's going on with us but they usually only last for a week or two. On the bright side they seem to be happening more and more often, which suggests that she might finally be coming back to life again after my father's death. On the less than bright side it's rather irritating when she gets concerned about Prim or me and especially when she worries about my lack of friends.

"I just don't think I need it" I answer. "They seem to assume that everyone is getting married this summer, or shortly thereafter. I'm not."

"You might still learn a thing or two" says Mother diplomatically.

"I think you'll end up married someday" smirks Prim.

"I won't, little duck" I say but I give her a smile.

"It's your choice" says Mother. We've had similar talks before so she knows where I stand on the issue. "Just don't think you're immune to it. It's easy to swear off marriage when you're not in love."

"I do swear off marriage and I'm not in love" I reply, blowing on another spoonful of steaming broth. "Nor am I ever going to be."

"You can't control those things" my mother objects. "What about you and Gale?"

"What about me and Gale?" I ask. "He's my friend, not my  _boyfriend_."

"Does he want to be?" she asks.

"What?"

"I see the way he looks at you sometimes" Mother smirks. She rises and begins to gather the dirty dishes.

"I don't know what you're talking about" I say. I've never known Gale to look at me in any way other than that of a friend or hunting partner. Except today in the woods but that was something else. "Gale and I are friends, that's all."

"I think it would be romantic if you fell in love" says Prim with a dreaming smile. She's become much more interested in boys and romance this past year and I haven't quite gotten used to this development in my baby sister yet.

"Why are you two suddenly advocating me and Gale as a couple?" I ask.

"I guess I always assumed the two of you would become something more than just friends" says Mother, collecting my now empty bowl. "You spend as much time together as you can, you work very well together as a team, I know that you love him even if it's not quite romantic love. It only seems logical for the two of you to end up getting married. The best loves are the ones that evolve out of friendship."

"How would you know?" I question as I rise from the table. "You and Father weren't friends before you became a couple."

"I'm with Mother on this one" says Prim and goes to get the rag to wipe off the table. "You and Gale would be really great together."

"Great as  _friends_ " I emphasize.

Thankfully they both seem to settle for that answer and nothing more is said on the subject. But that night when I'm lying in bed next to Prim I can't help but think of what they said and of Gale's weird behaviour out in the woods today. Then my mind goes to Peeta. He assumed Gale and I were a couple. Is that something everyone assumes? The more I think about it the more I seem to remember knowing looks and smirks from Greasy Sae and Darius, the peacekeeper, when Gale and I got to the Hob together. I remember cheeky comments from the butcher about how Gale and I seem to share a household and other similar incidents.

The more I think about it the more I realize that the people in District 12 who know who Gale and I are all seem to think that there's something more between us than just friendship, or that there's going to be at some point in the future. Is my mother right? Would a love affair be the logical next step? If so, how do I really feel about that?

I love Gale, I suppose. I don't think I'm  _in_  love with him. Then again I don't know what that is supposed to feel like. I really like being in his company and I spend all week longing for Sunday, hoping that he will be out in the woods. I think of him as a member of my extended family. Is that being in love? I've never thought about kissing him or what that would be like but does that really mean anything? I've always been adamant that I don't want the kind of love that leads to a family so why should my mind go to kissing?

One thing I am sure of is that I don't  _want_  to be in love with Gale. Us ending up together romantically might be the logical next step but if we do fall in love with each other that brings us right to where I really don't want to go. Marriage. Babies. The risk of having our child's name drawn at the reaping. I cannot afford the kind of love that leads to marriage and children.

But what if Gale falls in love with me? He sees it differently, he told me as much today. He would want us to be married and start a family and what would happen when I tell him no? Would I lose him? The more I think about it the more I come to the conclusion that if Gale's and my friendship evolved into love that would only mean that we lose each other. That is a frightening prospect.

* * *

I don't sleep well that night, both from hunger and from worrying about what might happen between Gale and me. As a result I can barely keep my eyes open at school and when Peeta and I sit down to work on the project I'm sullen and not in the mood for talking. Unlike last week I don't care if I come off as unkind or rude. It's not like it matters what Peeta thinks of me at the end of the day. We may be stuck working together on this thing but once school is over we'll probably never speak two words to each other again, unless possibly when I stop by the bakery to sell my squirrels. No, not even then. He's not going to be able to work there when his brother takes over. When Peeta himself marries.

"You're awfully quiet today" notes Peeta when I haven't said a word in fifteen minutes.

"Let's just do the work" I mutter.

"Yeah, absolutely, but... It's easier if we talk."

"Not everything has to be teamwork" I object. "I'm working on page four, you finish page three. We can do those independently."

"Okay" he says.

We work in silence for another ten minutes. I'm finding it hard to concentrate. Working on this project just keeps reminding me of Gale today and makes me wonder if he would expect us to have a home together if he ever does fall in love with me. He shouldn't expect something like that from me. Even if I fell in love with him in return he shouldn't expect it. He should know me well enough to know that I'm serious about not getting married. Then again, yesterday he didn't seem to understand where I was coming from at all.

"Have I done something to upset you?" Peeta asks suddenly.

"What?"

I look up from my paper and meet his eyes. He looks troubled and I'm reminded again of how genuinely nice he is. He barely knows me but apparently the idea of having made me upset causes him great concern.

"I know I teased you a little last week" he continues. "You've barely looked at me since and now you're not speaking to me. I just want to apologise if you took offense. I really didn't mean anything by it."

"No" I say. "No, it's fine. Don't worry about it."

He doesn't look convinced but he doesn't force the issue either. He goes back to work and I do the same, only now I'm also feeling bad for making  _him_  feel bad.

"I didn't sleep well last night" I mutter after a while, trying to explain my silence. "And I have... a lot on my mind."

He looks up at me again and I'm relieved that his eyes aren't brimming over with concern or compassion. Instead he looks understanding.

"I'll be quiet then" he says with a small nod. "Let me know if you want me to take over your page as well."

"What?" I frown. "No. I'm not going to let you do all the work."

He nods a little and continues working. We don't say more than a few words to each other during the rest of the class but the silence turns out to be surprisingly comfortable. Once he's no longer worried that he's offended me he seems okay with not filling the silence with conversation and I find myself feeling strangely comfortable in his presence. There's something disarming about him, like he doesn't want anything from me other than for us to sit here and do our work. Like it's up to me if I want to talk or not and he will be content either way. Like I don't have to be sociable. I hadn't expected that from someone like him who always seems to be in a crowd of people, engaging in conversation. Perhaps he finds it relaxing to not have to talk for once.

When we're finished he gives me a little smile and thanks me for the day. I don't smile back but I don't sound as awkward as last time when I say I'll see him next week. He replies that we'll see each other tomorrow and then leaves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! I'm kicking off 2016 with a new chapter for this story.

The following week I'm packing up my things and getting ready to leave on my own as usual when Peeta stops me.

"Wait."

I pause and wait for whatever it is I assume he wants to tell me before I go. He puts on his jacket, which I notice is a little thin for the time of year, and his gloves, which I notice have a hole in them over the left index finger. He doesn't seem to have a hat, which makes me wonder how he would look if those ashen curls were hidden. I can't remember ever seeing him in a hat.

"I don't have wrestling today," he says.

"Okay," I shrug, not seeing how that is important enough information to make me wait for him. It gets dark sooner and sooner each day and I can't afford to lose valuable hunting time, especially not during winter. I haven't had a decent meal in forever and it's starting to affect me in more ways than one.

"We're both heading in the same direction," he adds.

"No we're not," I object. We take the same road for about a hundred meters and then he'll turn left and go to the bakery and I'll turn right and walk to the Seam.

"You're going out the door, aren't you?"

I frown and cross my arms over my chest. What, he wants to walk me to the school door? What's the point of that, exactly? But since I can't think of any reason to say no I silently fall in beside him when he heads for the doors. I don't feel at ease walking home from school with him, even if it's just for a hundred meters. We're not friends. What reason could he have to want to walk with me?

A knot forms in my stomach. Lately my mind has been preoccupied with Gale and whether or not he might want more than friendship from me at some point. He has been acting different these past few weeks. With my mind focusing so much on that it's a short leap to wondering if _Peeta_ is after something more than friendship.

I know the very assumption is ludicrous. He's merchant, I'm Seam. He knows next to nothing about me and what little he does know he's learned in the past few weeks of doing the project and mostly consists of me having bad people skills. It's easy to see his wretch of a mother would have a stroke if he had any serious designs on me and I don't think Peeta would be prepared to face that wrath unless he felt very strongly about someone. Which he doesn't about me. He doesn't know me well enough for that. Which brings me to only two conclusions. Either he's out to defy his mother and date someone, anyone, from the part of the district she seems to have so much contempt for and I would be nothing more than the means to an end. Or he's after something else entirely. Something people our age usually have to go to the slag heap if they want to engage in.

That thought fills me with anger. I've heard the talk among some of the kids from town - truthfully never from Peeta but I wouldn't be surprised if he had the same desires as most other teenaged boys. I know some of the boys from town think that Seam girls are good for some slag heap fun but town girls are for marriage. Some of them aren't even bothering to be discreet about it. The thought of it is degrading and the idea that Peeta might operate like that does not sit well with me. By the time we reach the doors I'm irrationally furious with him. He hasn't said a word while we've walked, hasn't made a move to hold my hand or touch me in any way, but I still give him a scowl and a snort for holding the door open for me. He looks surprised but doesn't comment. The moment we're outside I turn on my heel and glare at him.

"I have to go get Prim."

"Prim? Wouldn't her classes have ended an hour ago?"

"I have to go get Prim," I say again, harsher this time.

He looks confused and a little hurt by the sudden coldness in my tone but he doesn't try to argue the point. He sticks his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Making a point to keep at least two meters between us I walk in a big semi-circle past him and go back inside the building, heading in the opposite direction of all the other students. Once inside I stop and wonder how long he will be out there and for how long I will have to stay in here until I can safely walk those one hundred meters without the risk of him still being nearby.

Suddenly it hits me how irrational I'm being. Peeta hasn't made any moves on me. The most he's done is smile at me and tease me a little but he seems to do that with everyone. He never bothers me outside of when we're doing the project. I have no reason to think he wants to get closer to me than he is when we're at that table. He's never tried to bridge the physical gap between us when we're sitting there, always allowing me an empty chair between us. Why would he even want to have anything physical to do with a bony, haggard Seam girl like myself when he's got pretty, curvier merchant girls around him? He's a nice person and I'm being anything but nice to him. My issues are with Gale, and not even really with him either. At this point nobody has expressed any interest in being anything more than friends with me and for all I know nobody ever will. This is all about my own fears and issues and nothing more than that. My fears, and the fact that I haven't eaten properly in a while and my mind is starting to behave in odd ways. Feeling very sheepish I walk outside again, almost hoping that Peeta will still be around so I can at least behave like a decent person around him before we part ways. And he is still around. He's made it halfway across the school yard and has stopped to tie his shoelaces. Slowly I walk up to him and stop beside him.

"Hi," I say sheepishly.

He looks up.

"Hi," he says, sounding surprised. He rises to standing and adjusts his backpack. "Where's your sister?"

My cheeks turn red and I avert my eyes. Lying has never been my strong suit so how am I going to get myself out of this one?

"Doesn't matter," I reply after a moment.

"Okay." He looks at me for a second. "I'm heading home."

"Me too."

"If you don't want to walk the next hundred meters with me you don't have to. I'll go first or you'll go first, whatever works best for you."

The hint of a smile crosses my lips. For whatever reason he seems to have decided he won't call me out on my irrational behaviour and my rudeness. I can't imagine why but I'm grateful. I'm still focusing my eyes on the ground, my foot drawing a circular pattern on the gravel, my mind searching for the right words.

"No it's fine," I say after a moment.

"Okay. Well... I have to get going, so..."

"Okay," I nod.

He begins to walk and I fall in beside him, keeping about two feet of space between our bodies though I'm not sure if it's for my own comfort or because I still feel a bit ridiculous. He doesn't say anything and I like the silence, like how easy and undemanding and accepting it is. I want to apologise to him for my behaviour just now but calling attention to it seems like it would only make it seem like a bigger deal than it was. He seems willing to ignore the whole thing so I might as well play along. So I just walk, trying not to let my mind run wild with me and get me into further embarrassments today. When the hundred meters are up and we reach the part where we go in different directions we both stop and look at each other. Peeta's hands are back in his pockets; the top of his ears and the tip of his nose are looking red. It's cold out, a degree or two below freezing. I don't mind being cold, to me it's a natural part of being out hunting for food and it's a price I am very willing to pay. Peeta doesn't look quite as comfortable; I can see him shivering where he stands. I think of the heat that always seems to hit like a wall when the door to the bakery's kitchen opens and I surmise that a person who spends so much time in that heat, around those ovens, doesn't take as well to lower temperatures.

"I'll see you next week," I say when we have stood there looking at each other for several seconds.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he replies.

* * *

Sunday morning Gale is out in our glade when I arrive. His demeanour is different today. Instead of being full of warm smiles and long looks he just gives me a short glance in greeting and seems sullen and irritable. I don't pay much attention to it at first. It's not unusual for Gale to come out into the woods full of anger and resentment towards the Capitol and those days usually entail him sulking in silence for the first hour or two and then raging for a while before calming down and becoming his usual self. I assume he's as hungry and weary as I am and given my own strange moods lately I can't fault him for feeling less than stellar. I take my seat next to him and fish out a small blanket from my bag, wrapping it around myself while I wait for him to proceed past the sulking stage.

He's quiet for about half an hour, then he finally looks at me again.

"How's the project going?"

This time he's not sounding amused or in high spirits like in the past weeks when he's asked me this question. He sounds angry and I can't help but wonder how he's managed to tie the project in with Capitol oppression but no doubt I'm about to hear the full story.

"Going good," I say. "It's boring."

There's a pause.

"Is _all_ of it boring?"

"Yes," I answer with a frown. "What does that mean?"

"You seem to be having a good enough time with your partner."

"I am?"

He pauses for a second.

"Thom got hurt in the mines on Monday and I was sent to take him home and then go straight back." He glares at me again with an almost accusatory look on his face. "While I was heading back to the mines I saw you and the baker's kid together."

"Is Thom alright?"

"Yes, of course he's alright. A concussion, nothing particularly serious." He shifts a little on the log, facing me a bit more. "The two of you seemed very comfortable in each other's company."

"Maybe," I say, wondering why that's the focus of this conversation. I don't remember that we seemed _very comfortable_ but it wasn't _un_ comfortable either. "Why? What does that matter?"

"Are you going to go out with him?"

The question is so sudden, even with my own thoughts last Monday, that I burst out laughing.

"Come on, Gale. Of course not."

He doesn't seem placated.

"So you're not... interested in him?"

"No. What-"

I'm silenced by his lips pressed against mine. My eyes go wide but I notice that Gale's are closed. His lips stay against mine for a second or two and then he pulls back and opens his eyes to look at me. He looks expectant and I'm far too aware of what it is he's expecting. It's something I'm not at all sure that I want. I look away and wipe my lips with my blanket even though there was nothing wet about the kiss. Just his dry lips on mine.

"Good," he finally says, an unusual warmth in his voice. "That you're not interested in him. Because I'm interested in you."

So there it is. He really does want to be more than just friends with me. He, like my mother and sister, apparently sees it as the natural progression of our relationship. Has he felt this way for long? Does he believe that I feel the same way too? Does he not know my stance on marriage? I feel a knot tightening in my stomach.

"Gale, I..."

"Please, Katniss. Let me just say this, alright?"

I nod, not knowing what else to do. Feeling self-conscious and vulnerable I wrap the blanket tighter around my upper body. I fervently wish that this conversation would be over, that it had never begun. Not because the idea of dating Gale is terrible in itself but because the idea of dating at all – or at least what dating eventually might lead to – is frightening to me.

"Katniss for a long time now I have felt strongly about you. More than just friendship. I think you're quite aware."

No, I wasn't aware. What does "a long time" mean? And feeling strongly, what exactly does _that_ mean? Gale doesn't seem to pick up on my hesitation because he continues without pause, his hand landing right next to mine on the log we're sitting on.

"What you and I have is special. We're a team, a unit. I've been holding back my feelings over the past few years because you've still been in school and you're not clear of the reapings yet."

"I'm still not," I point out.

"You will be. Soon. You will be an adult and we can finally start to explore the full potential of what we can be together."

"A week ago you said I was still a _kid_. But Gale..."

"Look, I know you're hesitant. I know you're scared. You have every right to be. But this is me. Nobody else knows you better than I do. Nobody else understands you better than I do. I can read you like an open book, I know how you'll react in any given situation and, most importantly, I know you'll have my back no matter what because we're a _team_. As friends we're already great. Just think of how amazing we could be as lovers."

I don't want to think about it. I just want to head out into the woods and then go home again with meat in my game bag and I want to come back to this glade in a week and know that the same old Gale will be here waiting, without any expectations other than that we keep on doing what we've been doing for the past six years.

"Gale you know I don't want a relationship," I manage to say.

"No, you don't want a _marriage_."

"Well one usually leads to the other."

"Katniss I'm in no hurry." I finally meet his eyes and he smiles warmly at me, his face flush with an emotion I know I've never felt. It's strange seeing it in him when I've known him so well for so long and never encountered it before. "Right now you're still in school and you still have one more reaping looming. You're not even old enough to _get_ married yet. But I think it's time that our relationship progressed to the next level."

"Gale I don't know that I'm ready."

As soon as the words leave my mouth I know they're a mistake. It's not a rejection, it's a promise. I'm not ready _now_ ; I will be _someday_. That's exactly what it sounds like and exactly what Gale seems to read into it. He nods slowly, brimming over with understanding. He puts his hand over mine and the gesture is so new, so intimate. It makes me want to pull my hand back.

"Take your time, Catnip. I think we both know what we have here. If all you need is a little time then I will gladly give it to you."

I swallow hard, feeling miserable. There is no going back now. Gale has kissed me and made his intentions clear and from now on we can never be just two best friends again. There will always be something else between us, even if nothing further ever _happens_. Maybe he's right. Maybe we could be amazing together. I just don't feel like I want that, not when the scenario undoubtedly would include the two of us being parents together at a reaping, and I can't see any way for this to end other than with misery and the loss of something special between us. It would be impossible for us to date for a while and then go back to being friends and it would be equally impossible for us to eventually have a toasting. It doesn't seem like there's any way we "win".

"Gale I never want to get married," I say, hoping he will understand that no matter what might happen between us it will never go as far as matrimony.

"You might be surprised," says Gale with a warm chuckle. "I am well aware that you don't want it now but as time goes on I think you'll realize that you do want to get married, under the right circumstances."

"No I'm very sure I won't."

"Well we'll figure it out. The important thing right now isn't whether or not we have a toasting. I simply think that together our lives would be better."

"I don't love you like that," I blurt out.

"Have you really thought about it, though? I know you, Catnip. I know you might not admit feeling that way very easily, even to yourself. I know you have so many other things on your mind. There's no rush. Not with any of it – especially marriage. I'm not entirely sure I'm ready to get married either when you turn nineteen. Frankly I have nothing against just dating for a while first, figuring things out as we go along. What I do have faith in is that what we have now is going to keep growing until we're both there. And when we both are, Katniss, it's going to be so amazing."

What we have now? What we have right now is friendship, albeit a strong one. Gale might feel more than that for me but I can only say for sure that he's a dear friend to me. Nothing deeper than that. A friendship like ours is profound enough on its own and I see no need for pushing it beyond what it is. Not with so much at risk.

"What if I don't ever feel that way?" I argue.

"I'm willing to take my chances." The look in his eyes would probably melt many a softer woman. "You're worth the risk."

"Don't say that," I protest, fidgeting where I sit.

"Katniss..." he says, not sounding alarmed. If anything he sounds calm and collected. "This is _us_. We're so alike, you and I. Perfect for one another. Meeting you in these woods six years ago was the best thing that ever happened to me and I think you feel the same way too, and I don't mean that in a romantic sense necessarily. Just... take some time and think about it, okay? Think about allowing yourself to have the things you want to deny yourself and think of what that might be like."

I don't have a clue what he means by that so I say nothing. Wanting the conversation to be over I get up on my feet and grab my bow and Gale follows my lead. I can feel his eyes burning in the back of my neck as I head down one of the familiar paths in the forest but he says nothing else for the time being. For the rest of the day we pretend as if the conversation – not to mention the kiss – never took place but I can feel Gale's eyes on me several times and there's definitely something hanging in the air between us. It's the first time I've felt this uncomfortable around him but I don't want our friendship to be damaged by any of this so I pretend that everything is fine.

The question is how long I will be able to go on pretending.

* * *

When I get home that afternoon my mother is alone in the kitchen, tying up fresh herbs with small pieces of string to hang them up to dry. Usually Prim helps her out with things like this and I raise a questioning eyebrow as I lay my game bag down on the counter.

"Where's Prim?" I ask, lifting the rabbit we're having for dinner out of the bag.

"One of her friends came by and asked her if she wanted to come out for a while," answers Mother, tying a perfect little knot around the stems of a handful of herbs. "You caught a rabbit? That's great Katniss."

"What friend?" I ask warily. I wasn't aware that Prim had friends she spent time with after school.

"Oh, Mona something..." answers Mother absent-mindedly.

"Mona something?"

"I think it's nice," says Mother in a calm, almost distant tone. "It's good that she has friends."

"Of course it is," I mutter, yet I feel strangely left out. Who is this friend and why hasn't Prim mentioned her to me before?

"She's fourteen years old now," says Mother, giving me a look.

"Yeah? And?"

"She's not going to be your baby sister forever, you know."

"Of course I know that," I reply with irritation.

Mother shrugs a shoulder and continues with her work. I reach inside my game bag and fish out the bag with two fresh loaves of bread, still warm from the oven. As always I take a moment to breathe in deeply and fill my nose with the lovely scent. My stomach growls painfully and my mouth waters. It's been a while since we've had enough success in the woods to be able to trade for bread.

I didn't see Peeta today at the bakery. I don't always do but more often than not he tends to be in the kitchen when I arrive. Now that I think about it, it's almost like a habit for me to take a quick glance and see if he's there or not. If he is he will glance over at me as well and our eyes will meet for a brief second. I've never given it any thought before. It just seems like a natural thing to do. We've been going to school together since we were five, of course we would acknowledge each other in a situation like that. It never goes beyond sharing a look. He's never spoken to me at the bakery.

I wonder where he was today and what he was doing. Does he ever get Sundays off? If so, what does he do? Is he out with his friends, like Prim? Is he out with some girl, the way many people our age go on dates on Saturdays and Sundays? I quickly discard the thought. How is it any of my business anyway if Peeta is out on a date? Though I do wonder who he would be out with. It can't be one of our classmates since if he's interested in one of those girls he would have asked her to partner with him, and not me. Does he have his eye on some girl a year or two younger, or a year or two older? No doubt he would be able to get a date with almost any girl in town. Everyone seems to want to be his friend so why shouldn't most girls want to be his date?

"How was your day in the woods?" Mother suddenly asks, taking my mind off Peeta and the bakery and back at what happened this morning.

"Oh. It was... fine."

"Fine? You brought home a rabbit and bread. You must have had luck hunting?"

"It was alright," I say evasively. "Three rabbits, five squirrels..."

"Sounds more than just alright. How's Gale?"

Immediately I'm on the defensive.

"What about Gale?"

She pauses and looks at me.

"No need for that tone," she mildly chastises me. "I was just wondering how he's doing these days. Why do you get upset?"

"You've never bothered to ask how he's doing before," I mutter.

She gives me a funny look but thankfully lets it drop. I get to work skinning the rabbit, not failing to notice how they are getting more meagre already, taking my frustration out on the task at hand. A few times my mother looks up from her own task when I give a particularly forceful tug but she doesn't comment. If she did I wouldn't answer her anyway. What's it to her how Gale is doing or what he and I talked about in the woods today?

After I'm done with the rabbit I leave it up to my mother to make a decent meal out of it and I go change into other clothes. I take a seat on the couch with one of the few books we have in the house but I'm only pretending to read so that Mother will leave me alone. I can't stop thinking about how it was out in the woods today and how everything has now irrevocably changed. It never crossed my mind until recently that Gale might have such feelings for me. He's right in that we're a great team and complete each other well but I've never thought of it as being anything more than great friends and hunting partners. Of course I've always been aware that he's a guy and I'm a girl, and that he's a particularly handsome specimen of guy at that, but I never saw that as meaning that something romantic had to develop between us. Perhaps Gale is right and I never saw it because I was determined not to get married at all and thus never really looked. If he is right, does that mean I will start to see things differently now?

I think I love Gale. I probably do. After all these years of being each other's closest friend how could I not? What I don't know is how deep those feelings go or what kind of love it is. I didn't feel much of anything when he kissed me but perhaps that is normal when you're taken that much by surprise? Can I grow to love him romantically, the way he seems confident that I will? Do I already love him like that on some level? I wish I had somebody to talk to and help me make sense of all this but Prim is too young to understand and my mother is a definite dead end. Madge is the only female friend I've got, the only friend I've got at all except Gale, but we never talk about boys and love and that sort of thing. It's clear that I'm left entirely to myself to get a grip on this mess.

When Prim comes home an hour later Mother is just about finished with supper. My sister looks happy from her pleasant afternoon and from the sight of a proper meal cooking. Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are bright and thankfully she doesn't notice that my state of mind is somewhat more jumbled. At the table she tells us all about her day with Mona, which seems to have consisted mainly of talking and playing card games but all the same she apparently had a great time. About halfway through the meal she mentions that Mona confided in her about a boy she likes and that gets my attention.

"Prim," my mother says in a mild chastise. "If Mona told you this in confidence you shouldn't be telling us about it."

"You don't know who he is anyway," says Prim. "I haven't told you his name."

"All the same you promised her not to tell anyone."

Prim looks a little disgruntled but quickly moves on to tell us about something else they talked about. My mind remains stuck on how they talked about boys. Apparently she thought it was great fun to talk about. Wasn't it just a week ago she mostly seemed to care about Buttercup and her goat and helping our mother dry and preserve herbs? Now she's got boys on her mind? She's fourteen and apparently starting to think about things like that. I'm seventeen and I was completely blindsided today. I've never thought much about boys at all. They're something of a parenthesis in my mind. How can my three and a half years younger sister be getting to that stage in life already?

Quietly I shove another bite in my mouth and pretend to listen to Prim's story about some new card game they played today. I've known all along that she would grow up some day but I really hadn't expected it to happen this soon. Fourteen seems way too young to start thinking about those kind of things. What is the rush? I don't think my sister shares my conviction to never get married and have children, which in itself isn't a negative. Thankfully I think Prim doesn't see problems such as how to feed and clothe them and she doesn't seem to give much thought to how they would one day stand there at the reaping. Or if she does she might be braver than I am and willing to take the risk. I could be wrong, maybe she never intends to have a family of her own, but that thought saddens me a little. I want her to have everything she wants in life and not have to hold back because she's afraid. I'm just not ready for the process to start so soon. I wish for her to continue to be my kid sister for a while longer, at least until she's past reaping age. If she does eventually find somebody and move out to live with her husband that will leave me and our mother alone together in this house. I can't even imagine what that would be like. Our relationship is lukewarm at best and even without everything that happened after my father died we're just not very much alike and I often find we don't have a lot to talk about. Living here alone with her would be strange and awkward. Gale would no doubt gladly offer to toast some bread with me and get us a house of our own based on what he said today but would I really want that?

I'm spending time at school on a project that is meant to prepare us for our futures but have I actually given my own any honest thought?

* * *

These thoughts are still on my mind the following day when Peeta and I sit down at our table to start on the second part of our project. Mr. Stoker just gave us an envelope containing our next scenario. This part is supposed to symbolise a second year of marriage and include things like babies and possible financial troubles and whatnot, most of it randomized so that each pair gets a different "future". I do believe however that all of us will have children thrown into the mix at some point so we can argue over how to raise them and trouble our minds with how to feed them and keep them clothed. Sadly it is not at all uncommon for a young couple to have their first child within a year after getting married, which is another reason why I'm adamantly against committing myself to somebody that way. I can't even think about having Gale's baby or my cheeks will burn red and I will feel horribly uncomfortable. I've never seen myself as a mother and while Gale is the perfect hunting partner I can't quite picture the two of us taking care of an infant together. It's too intimate. I can't even picture myself walking around with my hands resting on an expanding belly, not without chills running down my spine. I hope mine and Peeta's scenario won't include children for a while yet, or preferably not at all. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that they'd let one or more couples be barren to see how a situation like that would be handled. I for one would be relieved but I suppose one can't write that in one's school project.

"Okay, so here we go," says Peeta with what I presume is feigned excitement. Unless he's just relieved we've gone over our last toasting detail.

"Let's just get it over with," I sigh and reach for the envelope.

"You mean you're not excited to find out if we have any bundles of joy in our second year of matrimony?" asks Peeta, a light teasing tone in his voice.

"I don't care," I say shrugging my shoulder, not holding on to any actual hope that our scenario will include infertility. "I just think it's stupid that they automatically assume everyone is going to have kids."

"Good point," says Peeta.

My fingers halt as they're about to open the envelope.

"You're not looking forward to having kids?" I ask.

"I don't know," he shrugs.

"That's... quite a big topic to say 'don't know' about," I point out.

"Well, I mean..." he begins, then he trails off.

"You're eighteen and not really thinking about having children yet?" I suggest, offering him an out since I can tell he's uncomfortable and I, probably better than anyone, can understand feeling reluctant about this topic.

"I love kids. In theory I wouldn't mind having two or three or four of them."

"This _is_ in theory," I point out, keeping my tone friendly. I tilt my head a little and study him with a new interest. "Why only in theory, though?" I realize what a deeply personal question I just asked and I'm about to apologise when he gives me the answer without hesitation.

"Well, at the risk of saying something inappropriate... I think I'd love my kids _too_ much." He keeps his voice low and leans in over the table to get closer to me so that I can hear him. "What I mean is, I... don't want to be a parent at Reaping. If the right girl would end up marrying me I would love for us to have children but we live in a world with not only poverty and starvation but the Hunger Games, and I'm not so sure procreating is a good idea. At least not for me."

Slowly I let my hands holding the envelope sink back to the table. I would have never expected to hear something like this from a merchant kid. In fact I wouldn't have expected to hear it from anyone. I thought I was one of very few who thought like that. Even if I wasn't I hadn't expected anyone to dare say it out loud, even if Peeta's voice is barely more than a whisper and I have to lean closer too to hear him.

"But you seem to be open to marriage," I whisper back, not quite making sense of the mixed signals I'm getting from him on this.

"Yeah," he nods. He runs a hand through his hair, his pinkie finger catching on one of the curls. He tugs on it and makes a face. "Marriage doesn't have to equal children, though."

"Uh, it does," I say.

"They ration condoms but they're still available, Katniss," says Peeta matter-of-factly. "Not to mention there are several others methods of contraception."

I feel my cheeks flush heatedly. I've never heard anyone my age so openly refer to sex and to hear it coming from a boy, especially one who is currently my make-believe husband, makes me feel almost scandalized. Not because procreation per se embarrasses me but because it's not something I've given much thought to and never something I've considered engaging in. What other people do behind closed doors, or at the slag heap, is entirely their business and I feel no need to know any details. I especially don't feel the need to know any thoughts my classmate might have about sex or contraception.

"Peeta!" I exclaim. "Geez, do you have to talk about that?"

"Sorry," he shrugs, not sounding the least bit sorry. He then lowers his voice again to keep the meaty part of the conversation private. "I'm just saying, some couples get married but opt not to have children."

"Not in the Seam they don't," I blurt out.

"You don't have access to condoms in the Seam? I thought the point of having condoms available was to avoid their manual labourers dying from STDs."

"Peeta!" I hiss. "Is this necessary to talk about?"

"Oh come on," he chuckles. "You're that innocent?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I ask defensively, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest.

"I'm sorry," he says, still with a light chuckle but the hint of a cringe on his face. "If talking about sex makes you uncomfortable then I shouldn't talk about it."

I am uncomfortable. I am _very_ uncomfortable. I am also very tired of feeling uncomfortable and I don't appreciate him laughing at me and calling me innocent as if that's a bad thing to be. Giving him a deep scowl I try my best to show how beneath me I find this whole discussion to be.

"I just think it's an asinine thing to discuss. We're not twelve. We're supposed to be working on our project."

"And I think preparing for procreation, in a sense, is part of what this is all about," he retorts. "I also think people our age are much more interested in this topic than twelve year-olds."

"Well some of us have more important things to think about."

"True, I guess. It's also true, though, that the urge to have sex is powerful."

"Well, I think talking about..." I hesitate before I even say the word. "Condoms... Is inappropriate right now."

"Really? Why?"

"I thought you said you would drop the subject," I snarl, unable to think of a response and feeling increasingly flustered.

"You're the one who keeps talking about it."

"I have to go to the bathroom," I say icily and rise from my seat, needing a moment away from him before I end up really angry.

"Okay..." he says, a shift in his blue eyes. The amused look is completely gone from his face by now. "Look, before you go, just... I'm sorry. Okay? I didn't know you would be this uncomfortable talking about it."

Now he sounds serious and understanding and that irritates me even further for some reason. Without responding I turn on my heel and march in the direction of the bathrooms, feeling his eyes on me as I go. Great, now he thinks I'm a total freak. How the hell did we even end up talking about sex in the first place? I've never talked to _anyone_ about sex, except for one very uncomfortable conversation initiated by my mother about a year and a half ago. It's not something I feel inclined to talk about at all and he just blurts it out so casually like it's no big deal whatsoever.

I reach the bathroom and walk right up to the sink, leaning over to splash cold water on my face. I look up at my own reflection, sighing at how thin I look and how sunken in my eyes appear to be, my mirror image a constant reminder that I rarely eat as well as I ought to. For once, though, thoughts of sex and sexuality manage to win out over thoughts of hunger and sustenance. Perhaps it is no big deal to Peeta. Perhaps he's already had sex. He's had three girlfriends after all; at least one of them must have been willing to take it to that level. Especially if merchant people have access to birth control and sex seems to be less of a big deal among people from town.

I stop for a moment and think about that. Peeta and one of his girlfriends, having sex. I don't exactly know how it all goes down even if I'm quite familiar with the basics of mating. I've taken Prim's goat to get pregnant once and they give us a very basic rundown in biology class and then there's that talk with my mother. Those bits of experience are miles away from the actual thing between two people and I can't quite picture it in my head. How would the man be on top of the woman without weighing down too heavily on her? How does she breathe with his weight on her chest? How can it be at all pleasant when it just sounds painful and intrusive?

Realizing suddenly that I'm trying to picture the boy with the bread doing that with the last girl he dated sends a shudder through me, embarrassment flowing through my veins. What is the matter with me? What business is it of mine anyway if he has sex or is okay talking about it? Any business of mine or not it makes me uncomfortable to picture him with some girl, no clothes on, tangled together. My hands have a tight grip on the edge of the sink and I slowly let go of it and straighten my back. I sigh heavily and decide that even though turning eighteen means I'll soon be free of the reapings I hate having to grow up. Things were so much easier when I didn't have to think of Gale in terms of romantic interest or not and when I wasn't imagining my classmate and project partner in bed, having sex with one of my other classmates.

I know I've been gone for about five minutes by now and I need to get back out there. I just don't know how I can go back to that table, sit down next to the boy with the bread and open an envelope to find out whether or not our teachers think we'd end up having a baby within a year if we got married. It might have been okay after the argument-of-sorts we just had but not now when I've tried to picture him in the process of _making_ babies. It's almost as if I've seen him undressed for real and not just in my mind, even though what I pictured in my head included nothing graphic. I don't even know what a boy looks like when he's, well, in an excited state, so I couldn't very well picture Peeta like that. Even so I can't help a deep red blush from colouring my cheeks. Seriously, what business is it of mine what he may look like when aroused? I feel as if I'm invading his privacy in a terrible way by merely imagining it and the thought of sitting back down at the table with him and looking him in the eye is a little intimidating. I feel as if he would be able to tell what thoughts have been in my mind and I would want to die from embarrassment if he actually did know. It takes another couple of minutes for me to decide what to do. I can't go back out there and pretend like nothing happened. I know it's just procrastinating but it can't be helped. I've had more than my share of emotional difficulties for this week and I can't sit through the rest of this hour with him under these circumstances. I walk back out and find Peeta anxiously waiting for my return. He hasn't touched the envelope and looks concerned. I can see the heel of his right foot tapping rapidly against the floor and he drums his pencil against his hand in a nervous manner. He notices me and the drumming stops and he shifts in his chair, sitting a bit more straight, the look on his face is apologetic.

"Katniss..." he begins but I cut him off.

"I'm not feeling well." My tone is blunt, hopefully concealing the real thoughts running through my head. "I don't think I can continue today. Do you mind if we postpone it?"

"Katniss I'm sorry," he says, sounding stressed. "I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I was a pig, I'm sorry."

"No," I say, shaking my head. He wasn't a pig. He didn't really say or do anything that would upset most other people or that could be considered inappropriate. In all likelihood he's right; I am too innocent. An innocent prude with no understanding of how love works, judging by my reactions and emotions lately. "No it's not that. It's... other stuff."

He doesn't seem the slightest bit convinced.

"Are you sure? Because really, I-"

"No it's fine," I cut him off. His eyes go to the envelope and I realize that we're not going to be able to finish this assignment on time if we don't do any work at all today. We're already over twenty minutes behind schedule as it is. "We can meet up later this week and do the work then."

"Really? That's okay with you?"

No, not really. I don't want to waste hunting time on this and I would much rather just forget all about the work and not have to deal with this project again. If it were just up to me I might but there are other people to take into consideration. I need the best grades I can get if I'm going to get a job anywhere else but the mines and Prim and Mother depend on that. There's also Peeta and I can't let him down.

"Yeah it's fine," I say, trying not to show my discomfort.

"Okay, well..." He reaches inside his bag and fishes out what looks like a calendar. "Which day works for you? I have wrestling on Wednesday and Thursday, and Friday and Saturday I have to work at the bakery."

I try not to groan out loud. I have promised Prim we'd go and buy her new gloves tomorrow for the money I earned selling the rabbit yesterday. It's getting colder outside and she really can't wait any longer to get them. This means I'll have to sacrifice Sunday, or at least parts of it.

"It will have to be Sunday, then," I say, trying not to show how displeased I am.

"Okay," he nods eagerly. "So, uhm... Where?"

"My house." I'm not sure I'm comfortable inviting him into my home when not even Madge has visited me there but if the other option is going to his home and possibly running into his mother I think I prefer letting him come to me.

His eyebrows go up in a surprised expression. I can't help but feel insecure. Are there public places where we could meet and do school work on a Sunday? If so I can't think of them right now but I hope Peeta doesn't think it's too weird that I just invited him to my home. Maybe he just doesn't want to spend a few hours in the Seam, especially on account of a girl who is flaking on him right now.

"Your house," he nods.

"If that's okay with you," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady and sound confident.

"Yeah, it's fine," he nods quickly. He scribbles it down and puts his calendar back in his bag. "Just, uh, I'm not exactly sure where you live."

"Oh. Right."

I walk up to him and lean over the table, jotting the address down on the first open page in his notebook. I realize I'm standing in very close proximity to him but he doesn't say or do anything to suggest he finds it strange or uncomfortable. Once the address has been written down I put the pen down and share a look with him before I pull back again.

"I'll see you Sunday, then," he says. "Well, tomorrow, too."

"See you Sunday."

Halfway home I realize he didn't thank me for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few closing comments:
> 
> Katniss' behaviour in the first scene is quite off, I know. I allude to it in the text but the reason why I had her acting irrationally like that is the combination of hunger and emotional stress. Not that she's the only one acting less than perfectly in this chapter...
> 
> I purpousely wrote Gale as not being all too smoothe here because I figure he'd be a bit nervous while also excited. He's been having these feelings for two years or so by this point and has been waiting for the right time so it felt right that he should be less than stellar in his approach. Also, like Katniss he hasn't eaten properly in a while. He's probably been going over what to say several times, anticipating any hesitations or concerns she might have, and tried to come up with the best thing to say in response. That he comes on a bit strong is meant to be more a result of that than anything else. I hope he doesn't come off as unsympathetic. 
> 
> Then there's the sex talk between Katniss and Peeta. I hope he didn't come off as a jerk or that she came off as too naïve. He caught her at a bad time with the topic and misread the mood. Also I think he's a bit nervous bringing up the topic of sex with the girl he's had a crush on for so long.
> 
> While I don't explicitly state it in the text (not yet at least) I put the age of legal adulthood (consequently also the age you can get married) at nineteen. I've done so for previous stories I've written and saw no reason to change it here. I chose nineteen because when Panemians (or whatever they're called) hit that age they become too old to be reaped and thus it seemed appropriate that one's nineteenth birthday would signify reaching legal adulthood and being able to get married.
> 
> As far as the exact ages of the characters, I don't believe Suzanne Collins has ever stated their dates of birth with the exception of Katniss. IMDB has Peeta's birthday being in October and while I have no idea where they got that information it's a date as good as any so I'm using that. This would have him born in the year before Katniss, seeing as how they're both sixteen when they are reaped. Presumably then kids in Panem (or at least District 12) start school based not on their year of birth but having kids of the same reaping age in the same class. For Prim, I put her at 3 ½ years younger than Katniss instead of four, since she might as well be. This would mean she was thirteen at the last reaping in this story and Katniss was seventeen; now Prim has turned fourteen but Katniss won't be eighteen until May. This isn't really super important but in case someone is wondering...
> 
> Hm, I think that's all I was planning on commenting on... Thanks for reading, I hope it was entertaining.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being far too long so I decided to split it into two. Which means another update will probably follow shortly.

I spend the rest of the week trying to figure out if I'm relieved that I have a good excuse not to meet up with Gale on Sunday or if I'm annoyed and nervous about Peeta coming over to do school stuff on my hunting day. I lean more towards the former. I know I can go hunt on Saturday and truth be told I'm not looking forward to seeing Gale. I'm scared that things might be weird between us and I'm not sure I can handle that. For a long time he has been one thing I can count on _not_ to be weird or uncomfortable and it's unsettling to me that this won't be the case the next time we see one another. Briefly I wonder what he will think if he comes out to our glade and I'm not there but I figure it might not be so bad. It might even benefit me if it makes him draw the conclusion that discussing a possible romance between us is not the best thing right now.

Prim's face bursts into a wide grin when she hears that a classmate of mine is coming over on Sunday. Or rather, when she hears that a _boy_ classmate of mine is coming over. The only boy who's ever come over to visit me is Gale and up until now he hasn't counted as a "boy" in that sense. Not that Peeta does either. He is a classmate coming over to do homework, not some suitor coming over to woo me. Judging by Prim's reaction though you'd think this particular classmate was coming over to have an impromptu toasting.

"So is he cute?" she asks, flopping down on the bed on Friday afternoon, resting her chin in her hand.

"What?"

"Is he cute?" she asks again in a tone that implies I'm a bit on the slow side.

"He's…" I begin, not at all sure how to answer the question so I end up giving more of a mathematician's answer. "Peeta Mellark. You know, one of the baker's sons?"

"Yeah those guys are cute enough," says my baby sister in a tone like she's appraising them in her mind. "The curly hair looks a bit silly on a grown man but I guess technically your husband isn't fully grown yet."

"He's not my husband," I say in a tone far more cold than I normally use with Prim, though she doesn't seem to notice.

"Whatever. You know what I mean." She looks thoughtful for a moment and then grins. "Yeah Peeta is cute. You could do worse."

"He's too old for you," I protest, slightly horrified that my fourteen year-old sister is appraising the physical appearance of a guy who turned eighteen not long ago.

"Yeah," she scoffs. "I said _you_ could do worse." She tilts her head and gives me a pensive look. "In all seriousness Katniss, don't you ever think about boys? As _boys_ , I mean, and not just project partners or hunting partners?"

"Sure I do," I mutter, the lie sounding almost natural because it comes off like bashfulness rather than insincerity. She is used to me not wanting to talk about matters of the heart so that helps. "Just not the ones that are my hunting partner or project partner."

"Why not?" she asks. "Just because you know them as friends doesn't mean you can't like them on a different level. Come on, Gale's a total hottie."

"Primrose!" I exclaim, sitting down on the hard wooden chair by the desk.

"Well he is," she says coyly, rolling over on her back. "It's a shame if you can't see it because trust me, other girls do."

I frown as I think about what she is saying, though it's not news to me. I've seen how girls look at Gale, I've seen it for years in fact, and of course I am aware that he is a handsome person and an attractive partner. That's not the issue. Since I don't know how to explain it all to my still very young sister I instead try to steer her in a different direction.

"There's a whole lot more that matters than whether or not a guy is handsome," I say. "Looks aren't all that important."

"I suppose they don't matter much in the dark," she says, wiggling her eyebrow. She then bursts out laughing at my dropping jaw. "Katniss I'm teasing! Yeah I know, looks aren't everything, but this is Gale we're talking about, not some stranger. You know him. You like him. Hot guy plus likeable guy equals guy you can date."

"For other girls, maybe," I say. An uncomfortable knot forms in my stomach as I think back on my last meeting with Gale in the woods. "I'm not at all sure it would be a good idea for Gale and I to go down that route. What if it didn't work out? Our friendship would be gone. Why take that risk?"

"So you _have_ thought about it?" she surmises, sounding like the cat who got the canary.

"And I don't think it would be a good idea."

"Katniss…" The serious tone in my sister's voice, so different from the jovial, light-hearted tone from a moment ago, catches my attention. "Look, if you don't want to date Gale then don't date Gale, although I really don't see why you would hesitate. He's handsome, we know he's a great guy and I think he really likes you."

I try to force my cheeks not to blush.

"Maybe," I mutter, barely audibly.

"However, if you _don't_ date him and he ends up with someone else, _married_ to someone else… Do you think things will stay the same between the two of you? Do you think his wife would be comfortable with him having such a close friendship with another woman?"

"If not then that's her problem," I protest, crossing my arms beneath my chest, feeling defensive.

"Gale might not see it that way. Romantic love tends to trump friendship. Spouse trumps hunting partner. If he's in love and married and _living_ with some other girl she will be very important to him and he's likely to want her to feel comfortable." She shifts on the bed, sitting up and hugging a pillow to her chest. "All I'm saying is that if you're hesitant to look at Gale as a possible boyfriend because you don't want your friendship to change, be aware that _any_ romantic relationship he has will likely mean change." She gives me a small, crooked smile. "Same if you start going out with a guy who's not Gale, by the way."

"That's not going to happen," I say, rising from the chair. "Not everyone needs to fall in love, Prim. Not everyone wants to."

"Those two things you just said are two very different things." She giggles, a sound I've been hearing a lot from her lately, and gets up off the bed. "Why don't you ask your _husband_ on Sunday if he would be okay with you having a hot male best friend?" My scowl does nothing to deter her. "The whole purpose of the project is to prepare yourselves for adulthood and matrimony, right?"

"Peeta would probably answer that I'm free to do whatever I like. Now less talking and more working. Mother needs your help with the herbs."

She smirks at me and hurries off to help our mother out. I put on my father's hunting jacket and wrap a warm scarf around my neck before stepping outside to have a seat on the porch. I need to rub my hunting boots with grease to help keep them insulated and warm for the upcoming winter cold. As I work I think about what my sister said to me. About how if Gale falls in love with somebody else and begins to seriously date her, or even marries her, things will change. I realize she's got a point. Who wouldn't be threatened by their boyfriend or husband spending so much time all alone with another girl? In particular when it's a girl he's wanted to date. It was always going to be a future problem, even when we were just friends, but now something else has been added to the mix. The thought brings a tight knot in my stomach and after a while I stop what I'm doing with my hands, close my eyes tight and allow myself a brief moment of weakness.

No matter how hard I try to fight it, life is going to change. It's never static. Prim grows older every day, I do too, and as we progress past reaping age a different set of events and expectations will come into our lives. People around us, most likely including Gale, will be getting married and starting families. I will be needing a job. Prim will likely get married and move out too. I probably won't see Madge at all once school has ended. She too will be married, likely not inviting me to the toasting since I'm from the Seam and she's the mayor's daughter, and she'll become a mother and raise children under better circumstances than anyone else in Twelve while I toil away in the mines – God forbid – or work a low-paying job in some shop in town. Everything is changing and I am not ready for it.

* * *

Sunday arrives and I wake up feeling nervous and uncomfortable. All day yesterday I went back and forth between wanting to tidy up the place as much as possible and not wanting to show my mother and sister that I felt that way. It's not that I'm ashamed of where we live or anything like that. I just don't want Peeta to think that we are slobs. My mother keeps a pretty neat house when she's in one of her better phases but she's got her work cut out for her with the inevitable coal dust, cat hair and with two daughters who don't seem to notice if they leave their clothes on the floor or a comb on the coffee table or textbooks on a chair. In the end I tidied up mostly in the kitchen and sitting room, fighting the desire to scrub the floors so the coal dust that always lingers would be less noticeable. My efforts didn't seem to make much of a difference but I'll just have to live with it.

I can barely finish my meagre breakfast and I tap my foot nervously, wishing Peeta would get here already so we can have it all over with and simultaneously wishing he'd never show up so I don't have to do this.

"Katniss you seem oddly nervous about having a classmate over to study," remarks my mother calmly as she clears the table after the meal.

"I'm upset that I'm losing valuable hunting time."

She accepts that without question. Why wouldn't she? Not even Prim seems to think there could be anything else going on. That makes me wonder why I'm feeling this way. Am I honestly upset about Peeta coming to my home and seeing how I live? He may be merchant class but he's not Effie Trinket. I doubt it will be _that_ much of a startling contrast and he's probably expecting something far less comfy than his town home, not to mention he seems far too polite to openly disapprove of the state of my house. Is it the fact that someone is coming over? I never invite anyone home with me except Gale. Not even Madge has been to my home. I mull it over while I move from the kitchen table to the small sitting room, trying to decide if I should sit down or remain standing while I wait.

"So how long is this school stuff going to take?" asks Prim, taking a seat on the couch with Buttercup on her lap.

"Another four months or so," I mumble.

"No, I mean _today,_ " she says with a little chuckle.

"Oh. No longer than an hour, I hope."

"How come you didn't have time to finish at school?"

"Something… came up."

I don't elaborate and she doesn't persist. She moves a bit to the side, allowing me space to sit beside her. We watch television for a while as I wait for Peeta to arrive. When he does show up the knock on the door startles me almost as much as it startles Buttercup. Nervously I fly to my feet but my mother beats me to it and answers the door.

"Good day, Mrs. Everdeen."

I hear Peeta's voice before I see him. As quickly as I can without seeming like I'm very eager to see him I walk over to the door and open it wider. I'm a little surprised to see him wearing what seems to be worn-out jeans, too worn out for him to be wearing to school anymore, and a sweatshirt underneath his open jacket. Decent clothes but definitely more free time oriented than what he normally wears when I see him. The blonde hair looks like he combed it earlier but the cold winds have messed it up again. He's got his backpack flung over his shoulder, by the looks of it filled with heavy books, and it crosses my mind that hopefully he took the envelope back on Monday because I don't have it. His eyes meet mine and he smiles slightly.

"Hi Katniss."

"You must be Peeta," says Mother in a strangely cordial tone. "Pleasure to meet you. Come right in."

She steps aside and he walks in, rubbing his hands together. They must be cold; I wonder why he didn't wear gloves. For some reason I feel like a bumbling idiot now that he's actually here in my house, not sure at all what to say or do or how to even stand. Do I cross my arms over my chest? Put my hands in my pockets? Lean semi-casually against the wall? My mother makes small talk with him and he easily responds, leaning down to remove his shoes before she tells him to keep them on. He looks a little surprised but she tells him it's because of the coal dust and that makes me feel awkward and a little embarrassed.

"We should get started," I say bluntly, earning me a slight scowl from my mother and a little bit surprised look from Peeta.

"Yes," he then says rather quickly. "Absolutely. I don't want to take up more of your time than necessary."

That wasn't what I was thinking and now I feel stupid on top of everything else. Judging by my mother's look I ought to also feel rude for being so unwelcoming of our guest. I don't know what she expects from me; it's not like we have company over all the time. Not my fault that I never learned how to behave in situations like these.

"You must be Prim," says Peeta and I turn my head and see my sister coming over with the cat in her arms.

"Hello," she says in a tone that still has some of her usual shyness but also a touch of something else. Something more confident and a little bit more grown up. "And you must be Peeta." Changing her grip on Buttercup she holds out her hand to him. "Always a pleasure to meet my new brother-in-law for the first time."

The comment was obviously attempted as a joke, with perhaps the tiniest hint of flirtation, but it comes out strange and she immediately looks crestfallen. I'm reminded very strongly that my sweet young sister is still in there, despite whatever phase she might be going through. My eyes go to Peeta and I pray he won't laugh or make some comment about the number of brothers-in-law she might have been introduced to. Instead he smiles at her in his typical friendly way and pretends not to notice how flushed her cheeks are or the mortified look on her face.

"Pleasure is all mine," he says and then he looks at the cat. "And this must be Buttercup, right? Our saviour from the rats."

Prim looks surprised that he knows her cat's name, and frankly so am I. I wouldn't have expected him to remember it for five minutes, much less weeks later. I write it off as that he must have written it down somewhere in the actual assignment and maybe looked everything over before coming over this morning. Because seriously, who remembers the name of someone else's scrawny old cat? Either way, his comment about Buttercup seems to do the trick as Prim is back to smiling and proudly pets the cat on his very ugly head.

"Buttercup would be happy to kill as many mice as needed," she brags.

"Counting on it," smiles Peeta.

I can't bring myself to suggest that we get started on our work, not while Peeta is talking to Prim and making her seem so at ease. However Prim soon breaks the spell by slipping back into teenager mode.

"We'll show you around," she says to Peeta. "It's not a big house but nonetheless."

"I'd be delighted," answers Peeta in that well-bred merchant way of his.

"Come along then," says Prim, giving me a mischievous look that doesn't make my inner alarm go off soon enough. "We can start with the most important places to know where to find. Bathroom, of course… and Katniss' bedroom."

Now it's my turn to be mortified and even Peeta looks embarrassed. Thankfully my mother has gone into the kitchen and misses the remark but I'm shocked enough for both her and myself.

"Prim!" I exclaim.

"What?" she says innocently. "Isn't that where you'll be working on this thing?"

Alone with Peeta in my bedroom? One – or both – of us would have to sit on the bed in order to sit comfortably. Yeah, that's not going to happen.

"We'll be in the kitchen, actually," I say, giving her a stern look. This is so not like the Prim I know and I can't understand what's gotten into her. Puberty didn't make me behave this way, why should it for her? "Prim don't you think Buttercup is in dire need of a bath? Right now?"

She catches my less-than-subtle drift and with a little wave to Peeta heads off to clean the mangy old feline or do anything else that keeps her out of our hair. I force myself to smile awkwardly as I meet Peeta's eyes.

"Sorry about that," I mumble. "My sister is the sweetest thing but recently it's like she's been suffering from a somewhat frustrating case of…"

"Growing up?" he suggests when I can't find the word I want to use.

That definitely wasn't the words I was looking for but when he says them I'm surprised at how on the mark they are. It is in fact not puberty or being a teenager or any of those things that troubles me about Prim these days. It's the whole fact that she's growing up.

"Yeah," I say, smiling faintly at him. "Well, uhm, anyway… Do you want me to show you around or should we just…"

"I would be happy to see your home but perhaps some other time?" he says politely. "We really ought to get started."

I nod, relieved at his answer, and show him to the kitchen where my mother is finishing up cleaning the countertop. It doesn't seem in particular need of cleaning. I wonder if she's actually there to keep an eye on us, as if this was something that could turn into _lewdness_. Or maybe she's just curious about this new person I've brought into our home. Peeta is, after all, merchant just as she once was and I suppose it's possible that a link to that part of her life might catch her interest, even if it is an eighteen year-old boy she has no other relation to. I motion for Peeta to have a seat and he pulls out two chairs, one for himself and one to put his backpack on. He rummages through the backpack and starts placing items on the table. Notebook, pencils, pencil sharpener, eraser, the envelope containing our next scenario. Then he pauses for a second before lifting up a paper bag, the same kind they use at the bakery. He rises from his chair and walks over to my mother, handing it to her.

"I, uh… thought I should bring something. As thanks for letting me come over and finish the school work."

I don't know who is more taken aback, me or Mother. She makes faint protests but Peeta insists, placing it in her hands, and I'm not sure what to say. I'm not comfortable with it but I think I'd rather leave an extra squirrel on their doorstep or something than get into an outdrawn verbal sparring over whether or not we can accept whatever is in that bag. Finally Mother agrees to take it and thanks Peeta with a small smile. She opens the bag and freezes, an odd look on her face.

"Mother?"

"Is something wrong?" asks Peeta, looking worried.

"No…" says Mother, sounding slightly distant. "No, nothing at all, just… I haven't seen these in I don't know how long."

This gets me curious and I rise from my seat and walk over to her. I look inside the bag and see three large cookies with chunks of something brown, presumably chocolate, in them. Only three cookies. Seemingly then not intended for us to eat while Peeta is here. That strikes me as odd in a way, yet also just like something he might do. Bring cookies for us to enjoy as a family later without having an outsider present. I'm torn between wanting to thank him for his kindness and wanting to scowl at him for being so presumptive as to bring such a gift. If there's one thing I can't stand it's feeling indebted and where Peeta is concerned I've already got more to repay than I will ever be able to.

"I hope you'll like them," he says, a touch of bashfulness in his voice.

"I know we will," says Mother, still that strange tone in her voice, at once both distant and soft.

"What exactly are they?" I have to ask, having never seen this particular kind of cookie before.

"Chocolate chip cookies," Peeta tells me. "We don't make them often but peacekeepers tend to buy lots of them around the Harvest Feast and sometimes my father likes to bake a batch or two a while ahead, to make sure he remembers how to do them right."

My mother looks like she's about to say something but then thinks the better of it. She closes the paper bag carefully so the cookies won't turn dry and stale and leaves the kitchen to go show Prim. When she's gone a thought occurs to me and I look at my project partner with a scowl.

"It's really nice of you to bring them but won't it get you into trouble?" I think of his mother and how she gave him a black eye at age eleven for burning two loaves of bread. I can only imagine what she'd do if she found out he wasted valuable cookies on what she considers Seam trash.

"Actually…" he says, then lowers his voice even though nobody is around to hear us. "My father sent them with me. Just don't tell anyone. I don't think he wants people to know he hands out cookies for free."

I nod, biting my bottom lip. This makes me feel even more annoyingly indebted but I can't very well let Peeta think I'm not showing his kind father proper respect.

"Be sure to tell him thanks."

He nods and smiles, then gestures to the table.

"Shall we?"

We take our seats at the table, this time with Peeta's bag in-between us on the short end of the table, placing us opposite one another. It feels strange to be sitting here where I eat with my family, in my home, about to find out more about my pretend marriage to Peeta. He seems unaffected by the circumstances which calms me at least a little bit. In fact if things were different I might even be able to pretend that we are two friends working together on our normal homework. However that's rather hard to do when we're a minute or two away from finding out if our teachers think we'd get pregnant in our first year of marriage. The thought makes me blush a little, thinking back to the images I had in my head on Monday. In a feeble attempt at getting that out of my head I, somewhat awkwardly, take a moment to thank Peeta for not making fun of Prim before.

"Hey, don't mention it," he says, waving his hand dismissively.

"Well it matters to me," I say sternly.

"I know. I know your sister is important to you." He smiles crookedly. "I would never make fun of someone for saying something that came out wrong."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't." I run a hand over my head and down my braid, letting my fingers play with the end. "It's strange seeing her… grow up. So fast, I mean."

"I suppose," says Peeta, opening a page in his notebook but keeping an eye on me. "I only have older siblings so I haven't really seen it from that perspective."

"It's awful," I admit in a mutter.

"Really?" he says softly. "You think so?"

"You don't?"

"No…" he says, shaking his head. "No I think growing up is one of the best parts about life. No more reapings. Independence from your folks. Maybe even getting married and moving to a home of your own. Building a life. Adulthood brings a whole collection of new things to experience and all of them seem more exciting than childhood."

I can barely keep in a heavy sigh. It seems everyone but me thinks growing up and getting married and moving away from home is exciting. Even this entire school project is built around the idea that all we want to do when we graduate from school and from the reapings and turn nineteen is to have a toasting and get started on baby-making. Truth be told I think I might start to view my future differently if I survive this last reaping, knowing for the first time in eighteen years that I have a future, but I cannot imagine that I would be excited over marriage and procreation. There must be other things life has to offer.

"Katniss?"

Peeta's voice brings me out of my thoughts.

"Yeah."

"Should we open up this thing and get started?"

I smile slightly and nod.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, "part two" of Peeta visiting Katniss' home to work on the project. And… yeah, that's about as exciting as it gets ;)
> 
> It's possible that the formatting looks a bit wonky. That's because I ended up posting this via my iPad and I very much suck at formatting stuff through touch-screen. Things will be back to normal next time - hopefully.

Peeta opens up the envelope and takes out the scenario inside. He offers it to me but I shake my head and tell him to read it first. His eyes move over the text but he doesn’t get far before he seems to pause.

“What?” I ask nervously.

“I don’t think our teachers like us very much.”

I scowl.

“Peeta what does that mean?” He doesn’t answer at first and I grow impatient and slightly irritated. “Are they making us starve? Sending us both to work in the mines? Do they saddle us with twins? What?”

“Fire,” he finally says. He finishes reading the page and puts it down on the table, pushing it towards me. “Apparently our home catches on fire.”

“What?” Scowling even more I grab the sheet of paper and lift it up to examine it more closely. It does indeed say that shortly after our first anniversary a fire starts in our home and demolishes it. I glance up at Peeta. “You do know how to properly put out a fire in the hearth, don’t you?” The annoyed look he shoots back at me is answer enough. “I had to ask.”

“I don’t think it bodes well for us that your first reaction is to assume _I_ caused it,” he mutters. “Especially since the fire is fictional and was concocted by our teachers.”

“I know, but still.”

“You ever expect your real home’s safety to depend on my ability to put out a fire at night?” he asks dryly.

I ignore the question and read the rest of the text. Apparently we survive unscathed and the government assigns us a new home but we have now lost all our belongings. Every last one, apparently. I guess we can only hope we weren’t especially attached to whatever fictional things we owned, though the thought does cross my mind that I hope I was wearing my father’s hunting jacket and that I didn’t take his plant book with me when I moved out of my childhood home.

“So now what?” I ask with a sigh. “What do they expect us to do?”

“Find a way to buy all new furniture.” Peeta groans and runs a hand through his curly hair. “Remember in our first scenario how we managed to save some extra money by the end of the year? Not much but at least something?”

I nod, my irritation lingering. Of course I remember. We just handed it in last week. It’s one of the points we worked hard on, being able to put aside a few extra coins to use in cases of emergency. I was a bit surprised to find that Peeta wasn’t adverse to the idea when I brought it up and didn’t voice any protests even after he knew we would have to cut back on any form of luxury or excess to be able to do it. Then again, it’s not like he had to do any _actual_ saving, the whole thing being fictional and all.

“You think they’re punishing us for being clever enough to save about the amount of money needed to buy a chair?” I ask grumpily, wondering to myself if our teachers really are that petty. It is part of the project that they model each new scenario after what we handed in for the previous one but something like that just seems petty.

“Don’t know. But did you notice they don’t mention if that money is gone? Lucky for us it turns out I stash it in my pocket any time I leave the house so it was on me when the fire broke out.”

“ _You_ stash it?” I question. “If anyone here would think to stash the money it’s definitely going to be _me_.”

“Your proof of that being how I was the one who just thought up the idea?”

It’s a valid point but I’m not letting him win this one. I suppose I ought to trust Peeta, especially in this case when it’s an entirely fictional situation we’re talking about and we’re, in this scenario, a married couple. Annoyingly enough the word “couple” makes me feel uncomfortable and I blush. Peeta notices but before his amused chuckle can make me really angry he comes with a remark that makes me blush even harder.

“You mean to stash our secret coin collection in your bra, is that it?” He turns his eyes to the notepad in front of him as if to politely give me time for my cheeks to return to their natural colour. “Not a bad hiding place, I admit.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I bite out and now it’s his time to blush.

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry.” He looks like he wishes he were a mute all of a sudden. “I don’t know what made me say that.”

No doubt he’s worried he’s made me uncomfortable again by the mention of my bra. As if I can’t handle a boy knowing I _wear_ a bra. I don’t know why but it gives me a strange feeling to know Peeta has thought about the fact that I do wear one.

“Let’s just move on,” I say. “We can’t very well write that I hide our money in my unmentionables, can we?”

“Don’t have to write anything at all about it,” he shrugs. “Just that we had the money on us when the fire happened.”

There it is again. That word _us_. Implying Peeta and I as a team, a unit. A _couple_. I’ve never really been an us. Well, maybe in the past when I had an intact family. Maybe even after that with Prim. But never with someone outside my family and certainly never with a boy. Not even with Gale, though from the sound of things he would like for us to be. Peeta’s mere mention of the word conjures up so much more than he could possibly be aware of. My mind fills with the implications of the word. That wherever we had gone to when our home caught on fire, whatever we were doing, we were doing it together. When we returned to find our home ablaze – _our_ home – we did so together. And whatever is to happen now, however this situation is to be resolved, we will do it together.

“Where will we sleep?” I hear myself asking. “Do you think they find us a new place on the very same day?”

“Probably not.”

“And when we get our new place we don’t have a bed.”

“Starting all over again from scratch,” sighs Peeta. “Bet you anything they won’t let us simply re-use our furnishing plan from the first part of the project even though in real life we’d probably go by it the exact same way the second time around.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have suddenly remembered a whole score of relatives who would love to give us their old furniture, would you?” I say, half-heartedly cracking a joke. I really don’t want to have to do part of the previous assignment all over again.

“Unfortunately not. How about you calculate…” His eyes skim over the instructions over things we need to address. “How about you calculate the value of the things we lost? And I how much we need to earn to re-furnish? Or we could do it the other way around?”

“Whatever,” I say. “Doesn’t matter. I can do the loss bit.” With a bitter snort I open my notepad and grab the enclosed index of the things we own, everything we put down last week as things we intended on procuring for our home. “Not sure what the use of this is though, except to rub it in our faces.”

“Something about how things lose their value once you begin actually using them,” answers Peeta, even though my comment was rhetorical. “This whole thing sucks. Last time we had the chance of saving up beforehand so we could furnish the place almost entirely from the start. Now we’re going to have to live with just the basics and add stuff piece by piece over several months.”

“Maybe we should just go live in a cave and save our money for stuff that won’t burn down,” I sulk.

“You know of any caves that are available?” he asks, a disarming hint of amusement in his voice. “Not that we don’t need to write something about where we’ll stay while we wait for a new home to be assigned to us. Although I suppose we could write that we’d ask one of my brothers for a couch to crash on while waiting. Or we can stay with my parents. If my brothers are both married and out of the house – presumably Scotti won’t live at the bakery until he takes over the business – there’ll be enough room for us.”

I can’t help my reaction. I pull back a little and frown deeply, my nose wrinkling at the thought of it. Living under the same roof as Mrs. Mellark, that vile woman who barely seems to like her own children and therefore no doubt despises the ground a Seam girl like me walks on? Frankly I think I’d rather live in the charred remains of our original home. Peeta of course sees my aversion to the idea and a look of confusion and even hurt flashes across his face.

“What?” he asks. “What’s wrong with that idea? It’s pure fiction, anyway.”

“Yeah but…” I struggle for an explanation, not wanting to tell him to his face that I think his mother is horrid. I wouldn’t mind so much being around his father, and I imagine that their home smells wonderful from all the baking going on downstairs, but I still couldn’t picture being under the same roof with that woman. Somehow I find myself blurting out a response that diverts attention from what I’m really objecting to. “They’d make your brother move out until he gets to inherit the business?”

Surprise takes over from the previous expression on his face.

“That bothers you?”

Now that I think about it, it actually does a little bit. If nothing else it seems terribly impractical.

“If I were your brother and his wife I would be pretty annoyed if I had to build a home in a different place even though presumably he’d still be working at the bakery, only to then move once your parents decide not to run it anymore.”

“Is that really it?” he asks carefully, clearly not wholly buying it but also not completely convinced I’m lying either. I bite my bottom lip and avert my eyes.

"Well, I… I don’t know, I guess the suggestion that we move in there threw me. Even if it is just make believe. I don’t even know your parents and all of a sudden I’m pretend-living with them.”

“You’re already pretend-living with me,” he says, the hint of a smile on his face.

“That’s different,” I mumble. “I know you. A little.” I sigh with frustration and glare at the piece of paper announcing that we no longer have a fictional home and I wonder how many others have gotten similar scenarios. Do our teachers enjoy picturing us arguing over whose family we should be living with? Do they expect things like this to be common occurrences in our lives? I can’t remember a single family whose home has burned down. “I hate this whole pointless exercise,” I say. “A huge waste of time.”

“I don’t know,” says Peeta pensively which makes me scowl. “Truthfully I’m starting to see the merits behind this project.”

“How are there any merits?” I question, barely holding back a scoff.

“It’s made me think about things I might not have thought about otherwise,” he says, using the eraser on the back of his pencil to remove whatever figure he just calculated. “Or at least wouldn’t have thought of in good enough time.”

“I really don’t follow,” I say, shrugging a shoulder and turning my eyes to my own math problem.

“For instance I won’t have a job once my oldest brother gets married.” He pauses and I look up at him again, finding myself a little bit troubled by the wrinkle on his brow. “I didn’t really think about it before, not in terms of what it would require for me to actually get another job. Or where I would live. You can’t get your own house unless you get married. What happens when my brother takes over the bakery and moves back there?” He shrugs and turns his eyes back to his notepad. “Stuff like that, I guess.”

“Well then… what do you think you’ll do?” I should probably ask a better question or offer up encouragements – or not stick my nose in his business at all – but I don’t know what I’m expected to say and I’m afraid whatever I do say will come out sounding stupid.

 “Not a clue,” he sighs, drumming the back end of his pencil against his front teeth. “I’ve considered teaching at the school but… those jobs are not easy to get.”

I pause and for a moment picture it in my head. Peeta teaching. Peeta up there by the teacher’s desk, guiding students through the curriculum. I can see him patiently explaining the very basics of each subject to the youngest and I can imagine the older students liking him a lot, probably excited to have a teacher closer to their own age. Which of course makes it dawn on me that we have no teachers under the age of forty. Most are pushing fifty. Teachers are one of the few groups of people who tend to live fairly long lives by District 12 standards, having a job that’s not physically demanding or outright dangerous and making fairly good wages. Once someone gets a teaching position they pretty much hold on to it for life.

“How do you even become a teacher?” I ask, curious to know if this is something he’s given real thought to and looked into or if he’s just dreaming.

“Well for starters a current faculty member needs to resign or die.” He makes a face. “Once that happens I suppose you just apply. Not sure what they base their hiring on. Grades perhaps. Recommendations. That sort of thing.”

“You shouldn’t have much trouble landing a job like that, then,” I say. “You’ve got good grades, right?”

“They’re okay but I’m not a top student.”

“Well you’ll have no trouble getting recommendations. Most our teachers seem to think the world of you.”

“I don’t know about that… but thanks for saying so.” He shrugs. “Anyway, it’s a pipe dream of sorts. Nothing I’m considering seriously. I would really like it but the odds of landing that kind of job…”

“I think you’d be good at it,” I offer, earning me a small smile. “I say keep an eye out for an opening. You never know, right?”

“Right,” he says in that tone you use when you just agree for the sake of conversation. Obviously he doesn’t believe he’ll get that kind of job for real and I find it a bit saddening. There’s a moment’s pause and then he harks and looks back at his notepad. “Right, so… What would you prefer we get first, besides a bed? Kitchen table? Or a couch?”

Both of us return full focus to the actual work at hand, him calculating how long it would take us to earn enough furniture for a new home and me basically spelling out our newfound increase in poverty. It’s humiliating, there’s no way around it, having to lay it out on paper for our teachers how much we’ve lost in the fire they invented. They even want us to include things beside the furniture and appliances we listed last week, things like clothes and personal knickknacks. I find it cruel and a bit perverse. No doubt they want us to face the reality of what a house fire actually means but why make it a part of the project in the first place?

We work for maybe half an hour with little talking between us, just a few exchanges here and there when we feel we need the other’s input. For the most part the only sound in the room is the ticking of the clock and our pencils scraping against paper, and the occasional movement of one of us adjusting in our chair.

The sudden noise of something slamming into the window behind me startles me a little and makes me frown and Peeta lets out a short chortle which he then manages to rein in. My scowl deepens as I initially suspect he’s amused by my jolting but when the sound comes again and he stifles another laugh I notice he’s not looking at me but at the window. I turn my head in time to see a moth landing on the window and Buttercup’s paws coming flailing up to catch it, another thud produced by his paw trying to slam the insect against the glass surface. The cat’s legs disappear from view and the moth moves a decimetre to the left before the ugly orange paws come flailing again. I grin widely. This does not speak well of Buttercup’s hunting skills nor does it paint him in a dignified light. Plus it’s kind of funny in and of itself, seeing his paws flapping like that while the rest of him is mostly out of view.

Peeta can’t hold his amusement in anymore and gives in to laughter. It’s a sound I haven’t heard often in this kitchen, not even from Prim, and there’s no denying it warms my heart a bit hearing it come so spontaneously and genuinely. Buttercup’s legs disappear from view and this time stay out of sight for several seconds more than they have before, then he comes shooting up in a higher leap that doesn’t give him any further success at catching the moth but which does make him look utterly stupid and ridiculous. The sight, and Peeta’s infectious laughter, gets the better of me and I start to laugh as well. I turn my head back to Peeta for a brief second and we share a look, his eyes glinting at me in a way that makes me feel strange in a good way, and then another one of Buttercup’s thuds makes me turn my head back to the window. He’s not giving up easily, I’ll have to give the old cat that.

“ _This_ is who we’re entrusting to keep our home mouse free?” laughs Peeta. “Maybe it’s just as well it burned down. We were never getting rid of those mice by the looks of it.”

His comment makes me laugh even harder. I don’t really know how it happened but suddenly I’m finding myself laughing so much that tears are beginning to fall down my cheeks. I haven’t laughed like this in years, in fact I don’t even remember when it last happened, and the sound of my laughter mixing with that of Peeta’s is strangely nice. I’ve always been a serious person, in fact Gale says I never even smile except for in the woods, but I’m enjoying this moment of levity a whole lot.

My mother appears in the doorway, Prim at her heels, both of them staring at us with incredulity. In fact you’d think they’d never seen anybody laugh before by the looks on their faces. By now the moth has disappeared and Buttercup has given up his assault but the memory of it, and Peeta’s comment, still has be gasping for air as I try to rein myself in. Peeta’s laughter is slowly fading as well but when I turn my face back around again, wiping tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, I see he’s got a wide smile on his face and a very pleasant look in his eyes. It startles me to realize I like seeing that smile and that look on him. I like having laughed with him.

“What is happening?” asks my mother, bewildered at the scene.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Everdeen,” says Peeta, valiantly pulling himself together. “Didn’t mean to disturb your peace. The cat was making us laugh. He was… Well, I suppose you had to be here and see it.”

“ _Buttercup_ made Katniss laugh?” Prim questions, highly sceptical.

“He wasn’t having a proud moment,” I say.

My mother gives me a knowing look, one eyebrow raised, and then leaves silently. Prim follows her and I hear her mutter under her breath how she can’t wait until she gets to do this project and get laughs like that.

“I don’t know what got into me,” I say once they have left the room, wiping away the last of the tears.

“You sound like you’re apologizing,” says Peeta with his wide smile still in place. “Don’t. You have a very nice laugh.”

“Just don’t tell anyone that or my reputation will be ruined.”

He gives me a playful wink.

“Your secret’s safe with me. If you can’t trust your spouse with your darkest secrets then who can you trust?” I stare down at my notebook, not sure how to respond to a comment like that. I know he’s joking but it’s just strange. Especially when we’re sitting in my kitchen and not on the neutral ground of the assembly room. “You know, something just occurred to me,” he says, his tone having shifted, and when I look up at him he’s turned his eyes back to the scenario sheet and is drumming the back of his pencil against his teeth. “There might be more behind this fire episode than just to set us back to square one.”

“Like what?”

“Well…” He pauses and opens his backpack, rummaging through it for a minute before fishing out a textbook.

“You brought schoolbooks?” I question. “You know I have the exact same course literature as you do?”

“This is an oldie, from sixth grade.”

This bemuses me. I don’t know what I find stranger – that he still has schoolbooks from sixth grade or that he thought he would have any sort of use for it, let alone enough use to bring it with him.

“I really don’t get what you’re going for,” I tell him. “Why do you even have that book still? You’re supposed to sell them to younger students once there’s no one left in the family who can use them.”

“My mother didn’t allow us to sell any school books. She thinks it’s better to hold on to them and pass them on to our own children one day.”

“That’s a great plan,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “You don’t think they will have updated the literature a tad at that point?”

“Doubtful,” he says dryly. “Anyway, how well do you remember the class we had about all the wonders of the Justice Building and how the red tape supposedly works?”

“Not all that well,” I admit in a mutter, my fingers playing with the end of my braid. Like most of the things we learned in school that year it got lost somewhere in the haze of losing my father and nearly starving to death.

Peeta opens the book, which is so old and worn it nearly comes apart at the seams, and leafs through it until he finds the chapter he’s looking for. He pushes the book over to me so I can see for myself.

“I don’t think this project is all about math and teamwork. I think they want us to problem solve.”

With a furrowed brow I study the pages in front of me. It talks about all the generous ways in which the government wants to help us poor sluggards who can’t always provide for ourselves like human beings with pride and dignity. Mostly it talks about tesserae and what happens to orphaned children. I look up at Peeta with a questioning face.

“You’re going to have to clue me in here.”

“It mentions certain situations in which you can apply for what they call _financial aid_. I amounts to roughly a couple of days’ worth of salary but I think it would benefit us to go down to the Justice Building and ask about it. If we can acquire it for our home having burned down I think our teachers would be impressed.”

“Peeta…” I say, shaking my head. “That’s all well and good in theory but it doesn’t sound very reasonable. Why would the Justice Building hand out money to us? Everyone in the Seam is starving and they could care less.” There’s a real edge to my voice but Peeta seems unaffected, leaning over and turning the page to point at an information box.

“Because at the end of the day they need a certain amount of people to be working to keep our society functioning and because if we had to live on the streets it might actually end up costing them even more. This is a long shot, I fully admit to that, but I think it’s worth looking into.”

I consider it for a moment, trying not to feel odd at how his hand is only an inch away from mine for a few seconds before he sits back again. He’s right, finding out about small sums of money we could get from the government would probably help us get a great grade, but what exactly would it entail to find it out? He spoke of going down to the Justice Building. Does he mean us two going together? When? On our spare time? I have no desire to ever set foot in that building, having only been there when my father died, but if I let Peeta go alone that would mean not pulling my weight. Then again going there _with_ him would be a very surreal experience.

“You don’t think it’s worth pursuing?”

He says it as if he is beginning to doubt it himself and not as if I’m questioning his admittedly clever idea. I bite the inside of my cheek as I contemplate what to answer him. I don’t want to tell him why I hesitate to go there and I also don’t want to let him do such a large part of the work on his own. It is a good idea though and it doesn’t seem fair to let him think otherwise.

“It’s a really great idea, Peeta,” I finally say. “For the purpose of the project at least. I just… would never do it in real life.”

“Why is that?” he asks kindly.

“I don’t want to live off the so-called charity of the government,” I say. “I prefer providing for myself.”

“But you take out tesserae.”

“That’s different,” I scowl. “That’s not charity. That’s one more slip in the Reaping Ball that has my name on it.”

He visibly cringes and rubs the back of his neck with his left hand.

“God, Katniss, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound--”

“Look, I’ll ask Madge if she thinks there’s any merit to the idea. If anyone ought to know it’s her.”

That suggestion really makes no sense with the excuse I gave as to why I didn’t want to look into it but Peeta either doesn’t notice or is kind enough to let it slip. Or maybe he feels he just put his foot in his mouth and will agree to almost anything I say to make it up to me. Either way he nods and makes a note in his pad.

“Good. Get back to me on this when we sit down tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

He nods and goes back to his calculations. I stare at my own notepad and try to concentrate on writing up the small essay on where we would be staying and how we would cope with the loss of our home, which I started on when I was done writing up our fictional losses. Peeta generously agreed to let me decide where I think we should sleep and more or less only wants a quick read-through of the text before we hand it in tomorrow so it should be easy. It doesn’t come very easily though. I have a hard time imagining the situation and an even harder time to figure out how to write more than five sentences about it. All we really need to decide upon is where we would stay and how we would make the money to furnish a new place. The answer to the first question is that we’d be staying here, with my mother and sister, and the answer to the second question is that we would do exactly what we did in the first scenario when we had to find money to buy everything we needed as newlyweds.

While I try to figure out a way to flesh it out the thought suddenly pops into my head that I could write that we stay with the Hawthorne family. That would at least require me to justify the decision and to discuss some of the practical difficulties with temporarily moving in with another family. Particularly one in which the oldest son has expressed a romantic interest in me, although I couldn’t put that in the essay. The thought makes me squirm a little in my seat and I steal a glance at Peeta who is mouthing numbers as he calculates in his head. If it were real life and Peeta was my husband and we had to move in with Gale, how would that go? No doubt it would be unbearably awkward and tense. I have a very hard time even imaging these two boys being in the same room together, much less how they would be around one another if Peeta was my husband and Gale didn’t like it.

I turn my eyes back to the notepad. I can’t think of crazy things like that. Peeta is not someone I have a romantic interest in so Gale will never need to be jealous concerning him. Not that I have a romantic interest in Gale either. Or at least I think I don’t. The whole thing is far too complicated for me to want to try and think about it. So instead I write down a lightweight analysis of why it would be preferable for us to crash here rather than with Peeta’s parents or one of his brothers, should our home go up in flames.

Too bad things in real life can’t be as simple as that.

* * *

 

 

Forty minutes later Peeta has packed up his things and we’re standing at the door saying goodbye. This is almost as strange as when he first arrived. I’m not sure how you do these things. With Gale it’s always come so natural but when it’s Peeta it’s different. I don’t know if the reason is that he is a townie and I am Seam or if it’s that we’re classmates, not friends. Whatever the case may be it puts me out of my comfort zone and I’m not even sure what I’m expected to say or how to behave. Except for Gale I haven’t had any friends come over to visit, not since early childhood when I would play with other children living nearby.

“Thank you for letting me come over,” says Peeta, adjusting the backpack over his shoulder. “I’m glad we were able to get all the work done for tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I nod. I was the one who made us skip the work at school in the first place so I don’t know why he’s thanking me for the opportunity to catch up on it but it seems meaningless to argue the point. I lean awkwardly against the wall, my fingertips fidgeting with the end of my braid, and find myself wishing he would go already and not draw this confusing situation out. “Good work today. On that financial aid thing.”

“Good work yourself,” he says with a small smile. “Oh, and be sure to thank Buttercup for the entertainment.”

I can’t help but smile at the memory and Peeta chuckles softly. Our eyes meet and for a brief second it doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Then Prim and my mother come up to us, as if some sort of farewell committee, which makes me feel awkward all over again.

“Mrs. Everdeen, thank you for having me over,” says the ever polite Peeta. “Nice to meet you, Prim. I should be going.” His eyes go to me again. “I’ll see you tomorrow at school.”

“Tomorrow,” I mumble with a nod.

“It was so nice meeting you, Peeta,” says Mother, as if they truly bonded during the seventy-five minutes he’s been here. “And thank you again for the cookies. You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I was happy to,” he insists. Of course he was. The Peeta Mellarks of the world are just that kind and considerate. He then looks at me again. “Thank you for today. See you at school. Bye.”

With that he opens the door and steps out into the cold afternoon. A light snowfall has begun and a gust of wind blows a round of snowflakes into the house. I shiver slightly from the chilly temperature and once the door closes I turn around to head to the kitchen and gather up my notepad and pencils, intending to then take a seat by the fireplace. I startle slightly at seeing my mother and sister both still standing there, looking at me with expressions I can’t exactly define but which irritates me nonetheless.

“He thanked you for the day?” says Prim, clearly intrigued. “My, my.”

“What of it?” I say, careful not to sound affected in any way. “It’s a verbal tick of his. He says it every day.”

“To everyone or just to you?”

I roll my eyes but before I can reply my mother nods towards the kitchen and draws our attention to something more pleasant.

“Why don’t we hurry and make some dinner and then we can sit together in front of the fireplace and enjoy those cookies? Katniss be sure to thank him again tomorrow for giving them to us.”

“Yeah, if Peeta thanks you for the _day_ you ought to thank him for the _cookies_ ,” teases Prim, winking at me. But as we follow our mother to the kitchen she takes me by the arm and leans in to whisper in my ear. “To be serious, though, I think he’s nice. I’m glad you’ve made a friend who seems so kind.”

“We’re not exactly _friends_ ,” I protest mildly, keeping my voice down so that our mother won’t overhear.

“I think you could be. I worry about you sometimes, big sis. You should have more friends to spend time with. You deserve that.”

She gives my arm a soft squeeze and then lets it go, hurrying up to Mother to help her prepare dinner. I’m momentarily too taken aback to be of much use, sinking down on my chair at the table, eyes on my sister. She worries about me? It’s never really crossed my mind that Prim might do that. While some part of my heart feels warmer at the thought, for the most part I’m rather disturbed by it. She shouldn’t have to worry about me. I don’t want her to have to do that. She’s my little sister. I’m the one who ought to worry about her and look after her. I don’t ever want to be the cause of my sister’s concern.

I force myself to snap out of it, not wanting her to also worry about me just sitting here uselessly, and I begin to gather my school supplies. Balancing a notepad on top of a textbook and gripping pencils and an eraser with two fingers I carry my things back to my bedroom. From the kitchen I can hear my mother and sister talking as they prepare our meal and I hear both of them sounding excited at the thought of the cookies we get to enjoy afterward. After setting the books and everything else down on the small desk I sit down on the bed, mulling over the events of the day. How on edge I felt all day until Peeta showed up. The discussions we had. Buttercup’s antics and how strange and pleasant it felt to laugh like that together with somebody. Prim’s remark about the possibility of Peeta and I becoming friends.

I almost smile as I think to myself that being friends with Peeta might not be so bad, if it means getting to laugh like I did today.

* * *

 

 

I arrive early to school the following morning, barely suppressing a yawn as I open my locker and grab the books I’ll need for my first two classes. Coal mining history and math. Whoever made our schedules this year seems to think Mondays are supposed to start off the week as drearily as possible.

As per usual I don’t speak to anyone as I move through the growing crowd of students towards my homeroom. Unlike most of my classmates I don’t keep an eye out for anyone either. The only person I spend time with at school is Madge and we don’t wait around for each other in the morning like our classmates do with their friends. Sometimes their behaviour boggles my mind. It’s as if they cannot wait another minute to see their friends again and hear all about whatever mundane things have happened to them in the hours that have passed since they last saw each other the day before. I don’t understand friendships like that. When Gale and I meet up in the woods we don’t start off by delivering a laundry list of the things we’ve done since our last meeting. How can the doings of another person be that interesting every single morning?

I can’t help but notice that this morning there is one other person besides Madge and myself who isn’t partaking in this strange school ritual. Peeta comes walking alone to class, the smile he usually sports absent this morning, and he walks straight inside the classroom and takes a seat in the back without speaking to anyone or even nodding hello. It only takes a glance to guess the reason why. He’s sporting a brand new black eye. It’s been a few months since the last time but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing his features tarnished in this way. While he’s not smiling he doesn’t look especially gloomy either, his face in a rather neutral state, but something about the way he’s walking and sitting signals that he doesn’t want anyone to come too close.

I wonder what insignificant slight it was that caused his witch of a mother to do this to him this time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The financial aid thing is a bit of a stretch, I'm not sure I believe Panem's government would have something like that, for any reason. But I felt it worked within the confines of the story and the chapter so I decided to use it anyway. Maybe they just like the appearance of benevolence? ;)
> 
> Please leave a comment, I'd love any thoughts (even if I'm super slow at responding to them at the moment)!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel really bad, I have so many comments I intended to respond to that I still haven't had a chance to and I've barely written a word in over a month and I feel I owe you guys better than that when you take the time to read and comment on my stories. Things just seem to be getting crazier and crazier IRL these days. Nothing really serious, mostly just a lot of smaller things accumulating. Lots of overtime at work, the flu, family stuff, etc, etc. Hopefully my energy levels will pick up now that spring is coming and with it more daylight!
> 
> Anyway, until things calm down I probably won't be responding to quite as many comments as I would like to (for this story and for others). I read every single comment I get and I hope you all know how much I appreciate that you read my fics and give me feedback, and I hope you guys are okay with me not responding as much (even though I feel it's rude of me). At least for the time being, while things are crazy IRL, I'm going to try and focus my computer time on writing.
> 
> Now with that said, this chapter is another one of those slightly odd ones, I guess. To be frank (and a little spoilery I suppose) Katniss acts a bit irrationally, and a bit OOC. I went that way on purpose because of everything that's going on in her heart and mind at the moment. I hope you can give her (well, me) a pass.

Or chemistry teacher is sick, and with that being the last class before project hour our teachers decide that we should spend chemistry time as project time. This is announced to us by Mr. Stoker right before lunch and it gets my nerves rattling right at once. Biting my lip I rise from my chair to join Madge for lunch, gathering my books and sparing a glance at the back of the classroom where Peeta has been sitting all day. I immediately avert my eyes again at the sight of his bruised face. Shit. I've spent all morning trying to figure out what to say and how to behave when we meet up to work together. Should I ask about it? Pretend I don't notice it at all? Express sympathy? No, not sympathy. I would detest that if I were him. Maybe I should just wait and see what he does and how he acts. But he's been keeping a low profile all day and I'm not sure how to respond to that.

When the time finally comes that we meet up at our table I'm the first to arrive. Nervously I get my notepad and my pencils from my bag, setting it all down on the table and fussing with the pencils for a while to pass the time. Peeta arrives just a few minutes after me, punctual as usual. I still haven't had time to figure out how to act around him today and my first instinct is to put on a fake smile and pretend that everything is good, but then it occurs to me that I hardly ever smile so that in itself would be a tell-tale sign that something is not as it ought to be. Instead I try to keep my face as neutral as possible, which is difficult to do when you're actively thinking about it. As he approaches the table I don't even know where to look. When I look at him it's impossible not to notice the ugly purple welt over his right eye but _not_ looking at him is conspicuous as well. I force myself to keep my eyes on his undamaged left eye. I notice that the usual small smile is gone from his lips but he doesn't look sullen per se. Just ordinary, I guess. Ordinary for most people. Peeta Mellark usually has a smile to spare.

"Hey," I say in a mumble, my hands fidgeting.

"Hey," he replies, pulling out a chair and setting his bag down on it. He then plops down in his usual seat and opens the bag, ruffling through it in search of notepads and textbooks and the like. If he's embarrassed about the black eye he doesn't show it in front of me. "Did you talk to Madge?"

"What?"

"Madge." He looks up at me from his bag. "About the financial aid thing?"

"Oh!" My cheeks burn red. I've been so preoccupied with how to be around Peeta that my plans to question Madge completely slipped my mind. "Uhm, no, I… I forgot."

"Do you mind going over and asking her now?" He nods in the direction of a table by the window where Madge sits alone, waiting for Harry to join her.

"Be right back," I mumble, quickly getting up on my feet and hurrying over to her, hoping to be able to ask before Harry arrives. I feel awkward asking the question but she gives me a helpful answer. There is indeed financial aid to apply for but she doesn't know much detail about the requirements. The confirmation that it exists is good enough for me and I thank her before returning to my own table where Peeta, a focused look on his face, is going over the work we got done last week. I bite the edge of my right pinkie nail, almost wishing I could go back and sit with Madge for a few more minutes until I feel less weird sitting at a table with someone who got hit in the face yesterday. Then I draw a deep breath and rebuke myself for being uncharacteristically cowardly. It's only Peeta, after all. If he doesn't seem embarrassed about it then why should I be? "She said yes," I announce. "There is something like that to apply for." I slide back in my seat and remind myself to look into Peeta's left eye as he looks up at me. "There are a bunch of requirements you have to meet, she doesn't know what they are, but if our teachers demand to know we can find out, otherwise we might as well leave that part out."

"Good," he nods. "Did she say anything else?"

"It's five days' salary – based on the income of the spouse who earns the least."

"Figures," says Peeta with a snort. He searches through the paper he worked on last week. It's been torn from the notebook but it doesn't seem the least bit wrinkled. "Okay I'll put that in here. Be sure to thank her for me, will you?"

"Yeah… Good job coming up with the idea!"

Not knowing what else to say I just sit there, biting my nails and pretending to look over my own work from yesterday. I can hear Peeta writing something, erasing something and then writing something new. After five minutes or so he stops writing and goes back to reading. A few minutes later he makes a noise in the back of his throat and sets his notes down on the table.

"Okay, I'm done. And you got your part done yesterday, right?" I nod and he nods in response. "Let's switch, then, and give the other's stuff a read. See if there's anything we want to add, or change."

Nervously I slide my work over to him, accepting the papers he sends my way in return. I can barely concentrate on looking over his calculations and written summaries, knowing he's going over the things I wrote a day ago. Peeta is much better at writing than I am. Not that I've read anything he's put together prior to this project but I've heard him recite some of his homework to the class, something our teachers love making us do and most of us hate doing, and I know he always gets top grades on essays, particularly English essays, while I myself am happy enough when I pass. Expressing myself in words is not my strong suit, neither in writing nor speaking. I feel foolish thinking about him correcting my grammar or spelling or wording.

"I think it looks good," he says, startling me. I look up at him.

"Huh?"

"What you wrote yesterday. I have nothing to add." He sets the papers down on the table and leans back in his chair. "What about you? Anything you want to add to mine?"

I haven't read more than the first two paragraphs. Deciding I trust him to have done a good job I slide the papers over to him anyway.

"No. Nothing to add."

"Alright then," he nods, gathering the papers. "I'll hand them in and we can move on to whatever tragedies or joys will befall us next."

He rises but instinctively I fly to my feet as well. Thus far it's been Peeta that hands in our work but I can understand if today he doesn't feel completely comfortable doing so. If I were in his shoes I wouldn't want anyone to see me, let alone several teachers and everyone I'd pass along the way. As soon as I'm on my feet though it dawns on me that I did not think this through. Offering to hand the papers in, especially now when he's already standing up to go deliver them, serves to make a deal out of his injury – and the shame that comes with it. It would be a futile gesture anyway since he's been here for hours already and enough people have seen him to have made a note of the status of his face. The worst part is that this isn't an isolated incident anyway; the Mellark boys have always shown up with a brand new shiner every so often, though as we've gotten older it's become less frequent. I might have gotten up on my feet with good intentions but all it's going to lead to is embarrassing him.

Thankfully he doesn't look embarrassed, or angry. He looks puzzled, eyeing me up and down with his good eye.

"Why are you standing?"

"Bathroom," I manage to say. "I have to pee. I might as well hand the papers in on my way."

"Thanks, but it takes a few minutes to walk to the classroom and back so why don't I hand in the papers while you pee and we'll meet up here at roughly the same time?"

Without a word I turn and walk in the direction of the bathroom, taking refuge there for the second week in a row. If I'm not careful this might become an undignified tradition. It annoys me that Peeta is the cause of it, that I'm letting a classmate affect me in such a strange way.

The chilly, worn down bathroom is empty when I walk in so I don't bother going to a stall. I pace back and forth in front of the dirty mirror and count to one hundred, then I walk out again. Peeta isn't back at our table. I sit down and wait, my eyes soon drifting to the envelope that holds the rest of our scenario. I know Peeta hasn't looked at the next pages. He said he wouldn't until we could look at them together. I'm tempted to reach out my hand and find out what they think would happen to us aside from losing everything in a fire but I think the better of it. If he can have the papers at home with him for a whole week without reading ahead then I can wait a few minutes for him.

When he comes back he fishes out a plastic bottle from his backpack and has a few gulps of water before sitting back down. I notice him wince and wonder if certain motions hurt his wounded face. I've never had a black eye. I don't know in what way it hurts, or how bad. Even so I am seething inside, hating the woman who did that to him. How can anyone lay hand on a face like that, on eyes like that? Especially when it is your own son! I have to pretend to be writing something on my notepad to keep my eyes away and my anger hidden. As Peeta sits back down he opens the envelope and pulls out the scenario and is about to turn the page when I remember that I have something to say to him, something that perhaps might make him feel a little bit better.

"The cookies were great." He pauses and looks up at me with surprise written on his face. "Better than great. Fantastic, really. Prim and my mother both send their thanks. Really, you… quite made our night last night."

He rewards me with the first smile of the day, even if it is a small one. But it makes me wonder and I can't stop a worried frown. I want to ask him if the reason why his features have been tarnished is the treat he brought me and my family but I won't ask the question out loud. He has no reason to tell me yes or no, and I suspect he will say no whatever the truth may be. I just hate the thought that he once again received physical punishment for bringing me food, to the point where I almost want to believe the black eye was the result of something different, like a wrestling match with his brother gone wrong. I realize he's looking at me and I resist the urge to fidget. The smile has disappeared from his face but he still doesn't look sad or angry or any of the other emotions I would be feeling if I were in his shoes.

"I'm glad you liked the cookies," is all he says.

"Loved them," I say meekly.

"I'll tell my father. He will be very pleased."

I look at him and nod. This time I actually do dare to look at the wounded eye, though it's almost completely swollen shut so it doesn't garner any eye-contact. Strangely it's still a fairly nice moment somehow, broken after a minute when Peeta harks and nods at the papers in his hands.

"Right," I say. "Moving forward with the project. Tell me, what happens once we have dealt with the fire situation?"

"Well, what you would expect, I guess…" says Peeta in a tone that suggests he's bored by their unoriginality.

"Pregnancy?" I groan.

"Actually no. I suppose not having a home and a bed to sleep in would serve to quench even the most passionate of marriages, or at least hamper the ability to go wild and crazy between the sheets five nights a week." I open my mouth, about to ask if that's how often married people have sex, but wisely realize what I'm about to do and shove what's left of the nail on my left index finger in my mouth, chewing nervously. "No, just that disasters apparently always come in threes. It's what my mother always says and it seems our teachers adhere to the same philosophy." He puts the paper down and pushes it towards me on the table in an angle that allows us both to read if we tilt our heads. "A close relative gets sick and we have to find money to help pay for treatment."

"We don't need money, we have my mother," I answer with a shrug.

"Yeah, they know that," says Peeta. "Read closer."

I squint and study the text, deciding after only a few lines that our teachers are ruthless sadists who probably cheer along during the Hunger Games even when no peacekeepers are around. Knowing that my mother is an apothecary and would be able to offer medical help they've decided to make _her_ the sick one. With a snort I pick the paper up and read it more carefully, shaking my head at the sheer idiocy of it all.

"Our teachers are idiots."

"Kind of, yeah."

"They don't even specify what's wrong with her," I note, wrinkling my nose. "Nor what the treatment will cost."

"I think it says she's got a cough and stomach aches."

I give him a look.

"That could be anything from the flu to gastritis to cancer to-"

"Okay, okay, I get the point."

I read the text a few times over, drawing my bottom lip into my mouth and worrying it between my teeth as I mull the whole thing over. Peeta waits quietly for me to say something. Then something occurs to me and I almost indulge in a triumphant grin.

"I just had a thought!" I announce, setting the papers down.

"Oh quit bragging."

The comment stuns me at first but then the meaning of it makes its way into my apparently rather slow brain. The look on Peeta's face that underlines the comment makes me feel insulted for a fracture of a second until the joke really settles in my mind. Maybe it's the tension I've felt all day, or maybe it's a result of what happened between us yesterday. Whatever the reason I start to laugh and it draws him to laughing too after a few seconds. It's not the roaring kind of laughter from yesterday but I enjoy it nonetheless. The good-natured ribbing actually makes me feel good about myself, like I've been accepted. Like he's getting comfortable with me.

"Well go on, tell me what you were thinking," he chuckles after a moment.

"I'm thinking, too bad for them we have a secret weapon."

"Buttercup can cure people with his purrs?" That makes me laugh a little, too. "Because just so you know, I'm not wowed by the talents you've claimed he has so far."

"No, not Buttercup," I chuckle. "My sister. Prim."

" _She_ can cure people through purring?"

"Peeta!" I say, playfully swatting at his arm as he reaches out to grab the papers. We share a look full of mirth. "No, you fool. My mother is training her to be an apothecary as well. We'll have her step up to the plate and help my mother get better."

"And she will charge us how much for that?" asks Peeta, sounding so serious that I nearly scowl. When he winks at me I roll my eyes, allowing one last smile before getting serious again.

"Come on, isn't it a good idea? It's quick and it's simple."

"Yeah. Saves us a lot of time, too." He writes the suggestion down and glances at the large clock over by the door. "So what should we do with the remaining forty minutes until break? Perhaps we ought to flesh the suggestion out a bit, write something about how exactly this would all happen."

"Sure," I nod. "At recess I could go find Prim and ask her for some advice on things to specifically mention. You know, treatment options and things like that."

"Good," nods Peeta, smiling slightly. "Excellent."

* * *

A few minutes before recess I leave the table and hurry down the hallway for Prim's homeroom, which is in another part of the building. I'm hoping to catch her as she leaves class so I can speak with her right away and get her input. It feels peculiar walking down the familiar halls when no one is around. I almost feel like I'm doing something I'm not supposed to, skipping class or something. Impatiently tapping my foot I lean against the wall outside Prim's classroom, watching the clock on the opposite wall tick towards the end of class. Soon I hear the rustling of people pulling back their chairs, gathering their things and talking amongst themselves. The door opens and Prim's classmates come spilling out into the hallway, eager to head home since this was their last class for the day. Most of them seem to be excited to be done. They all make so much noise. That's another thing that's always puzzled me. Why the need to talk and talk and talk just because school is done for the day? On days when I haven't eaten or slept particularly well and I'm suffering from a headache the level of noise the other students at my school are capable of producing really frustrates me. Peace and quiet is something I seem to value far more than many of the people I go to school with.

Prim comes walking out of the classroom, making me feel a bit better. She's with two friends, one of whom I presume is Mona. I try to look friendly as I walk up to them and say my sister's name. Upon seeing me Prim stops in her tracks, looking surprised but also happy. I'm secretly pleased that her awkward puberty phase hasn't made her feel embarrassed to be seen with me when her friends are around. With a smile she wraps an arm around my neck and pulls me in for a quick hug.

"What are you doing here, Katniss?" she asks.

"Just… need a little information from my medicinal sister."

She looks puzzled but nods and tells her friends she'll catch up with them in a few minutes. I take her by the arm and lead her back to the spot I was previously standing. Needing to raise my voice to make myself heard over the calamity I explain to her what the new part of our scenario is about and what I need from her. She thinks for a moment and asks me to hold her backpack while she rifles through it in search of her notepad and pencil.

"You couldn't be more specific about the diagnosis, or at least the symptoms?" she asks with a furrowed brow.

"I probably could but our teachers can't," I say with rolling eyes.

"Gotcha."

Her brow furrows as she thinks. She writes a few things down, thinks some more and then adds more to the list. After ten minutes I start looking at the clock, knowing my recess is over soon and Peeta will be waiting for me. Prim notices and gives me a crooked, teasing smile, drumming her pencil against the pad just like Peeta is wont to do.

"Will he come looking if you're gone for too long?"

"I like being punctual," I reply, causing her to giggle for some reason. She adds another couple of things to the list and tears the page from the pad, handing it to me and giving my cheek a kiss.

"See you at home, big sis. Say hi to your husband for me. Oh – and thank him for the cookies!"

"I already thanked him," I say as she begins to walk away.

"So thank him again," she says cheerfully, throwing me a look over her shoulder and winking at me.

As I head back into the assembly room, which is uncommonly lively at the moment with most of the students moving about and talking amongst each other as recess draws to an end, I feel a lot better than I did an hour ago. Not only because the issue of how to act around Peeta today has resolved itself. It's odd seeing Prim with a group of friends but it's odd in a good way. Next year I won't be in school anymore and it's good to know she'll have other girls to look after her should she need it. Though I have no doubt Prim will be the one looking after them. I'm just happy she seems to have made new friends.

A scowl comes over my face as our table comes into view through the sea of students. Peeta is back in his chair, notepad open in front of him and pencil in hand, and he's not alone. Mallory Grey stands beside him, resting one hand on the back of his chair, smiling as she talks to him in what I suspect is a coquettish manner. Peeta smiles back at her and looks at ease which doesn't sit well with me. We don't speak about Mallory very often but the few times we do he has expressed that he finds her intimidating and that he doesn't like her very much yet here he is being all smiles and friendliness despite his reserved mood today. It rings false to me and I don't like that kind of dishonesty. One cannot trust a person who can dislike someone yet act like they really like them when they interact. Besides, what is she even doing here? Recess is over in two minutes, shouldn't she be with her own partner, gearing up for the upcoming hour? She may have wanted to partner with Peeta but she had to choose someone else instead and she should go back to him and focus on her school work. I don't know where the thought comes from but I'm struck with a sudden urge to give her a fake smile and ask her if her own pretend-husband isn't suitable for conversation since she apparently needs to engage mine instead. The thought makes me feel ashamed and I avert my eyes and bite my thumbnail as I approach our table. My nails are getting quite the gnawing today.

"That is so amazing, I had no idea!" Mallory chirps to Peeta when I walk up and toss my backpack on the empty chair, announcing my arrival.

"It's no big deal," Peeta insists, his good eye drifting from her to me. "Hey there. Had a good recess?"

"Always," I mutter in a not too friendly tone, taking my seat. "Recess is over now though so let's get back to work, shall we?"

"Duty calls," says Peeta, looking up at Mallory again.

"I should get back to my own scenario," she says. "I'm pregnant so I have a lot of my mind over there these days. Joe actually put forward the suggestion that we shouldn't spend money on a crib when the kid can just sleep with us in the bed." She gives Peeta a conspiring wink. "I don't think my fake husband is cheap so much as he hates math."

Peeta chuckles lightly.

"Well good luck with that."

"I'll see you later," she says and takes her hand off of his chair. I get a small nod in my direction. "Katniss." She begins to walk away but turns after a few steps and addresses Peeta again. "Remember what we talked about!"

He nods and gives her a smile that even I can tell is fake. Then she heads off to her own pretend husband and her pretend pregnancy and Peeta draws a deep breath which he lets out through pursed lips. I give him a look from underneath my bangs, feeling oddly disappointed in him for putting up a façade like that in front of her. I wonder what it was they talked about that she wants him to remember but I am most certainly not about to do something as undignified as ask.

"Ready to pick it up again?" he asks as if nothing happened. He winces slightly and his hand moves to his face, his fingertips grazing the wounded skin. Was all that fake smiling painful?

"Sure," I say. He turns to his backpack and begins to pick up our material, which he dutifully put out of sight while we were both away from the table during recess. While he's busy with that my eyes fall on something on the table. I lean over to pick it up and frown. "Hey your good friend Mallory left her hairband here."

"That's not hers," he concludes after merely casting a brief glance at it while ruffling through his backpack.

"Oh?" How many girls have been up here to chat with him during the twenty minutes recess lasted? I thought he said he was going outside for some fresh air.

"Here, I'll take it." He holds out his hand, still keeping his eye on his backpack as he seems to be searching for something. Hesitating for a second I then place the headband in his hand, a strange feeling coming over me as his focus turns the piece of cloth, which he folds carefully and puts it in his jacket pocket. "Excuse me, I can't seem to find my pencil sharpener. It must have fallen out of my case."

"So use a different pencil," I say, a slight coldness to my voice.

He pauses and looks at me and I get the feeling that I've just acted inappropriately unfriendly for no reason. Again. He manages a smile that doesn't seem genuine in the slightest and dutifully puts his backpack away.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to take up a lot of time over it."

I have half a mind to suggest that if he spent less time cavorting with other girls in our class and more time focusing on the work the whole process would be much more efficient but I know it's an unfair accusation. Up until now he has been a diligent worker who more than pulls his own weight and he is free to do whatever he likes during recess. But we've only been at this for a few weeks and perhaps now his façade is beginning to fall. Anyone can play a role one hour a week for a month or two but sooner or later their real selves begin to show. I don't want to come to find out that the sweet, generous boy with the bread is not as sweet and generous as I've always believed.

"Katniss?"

His voice brings me out of my thoughts and I feel a bit bad. Here he sits opposite me with a bruised eye and his normally cheerful spirits dampened and I'm angry that he seems to be forcing that cheer anyhow. Something inside me suggests that perhaps the reason why this aggravates me so much is that it wasn't even an hour ago that he was smiling at me and making me laugh. If he can put on the fake pleasantry for the likes of Mallory Grey, what's to say he's not doing that with me? I know he chose me for this project more than I chose him and he's taken a beating from his mother for my benefit in the past, yet I can't stop the lingering doubt from coming up to the surface. When he asked me to pick him as a partner he didn't know me. Now he's worked with me for a month and I haven't been anything like the bubbly, giggling, smiling girls he normally hangs out with. I will always feel indebted to Peeta Mellark because of that bread and the burden would be worse to bear if he doesn't like me after getting to know me – if he feels I wasn't worth it.

"Are you okay?" he asks. I shake my head to clear it. I need to get my head in the game. Nodding to the envelope I urge him to get on with the third, and final, part of this scenario. He gives me a sceptical look but gets the papers out. "Before we continue this, did you catch Prim before she went home?"

This springs me to attention and I remember that I've got Prim's notes still folded in my hand. I quickly unfold it and hand it over to him without even looking at it myself. He puts the scenario down and studies the suggestions my sister made. In order to have something to do while he reads I reach for the scenario and eye through the two parts we've already concluded, making sure we didn't miss any instructions. The two parts are supposed to be covering events for roughly the first eight months of our second year of marriage but as I look at it the project seems to be even more futile than ever. They've put an insane amount of work into crafting it but it's lifeless and seems to be utterly missing the point. Is this really what they want to teach us that marriage is? There's never any mentioning of love or romance. When I think of my parents' marriage, the only marriage I've really seen up-close, I think of smiles and kisses and loving looks. Not of drafting budgets and writing essays about the value of material items. What do Peeta and I like to do together, in this fictional life? What kind of things do we laugh at together? What do we talk about when we are alone? I find myself wishing they had included something along those lines to breathe some life and soul into all of this.

"Your sister is clever," says Peeta. I look up, the compliment filling me with pride. "This stuff is great. We need to work this into our… Well, it's no longer another economics bit, is it? I think we should write it up as a one-page essay." He hands me back the paper from Prim. "This is good stuff. I bet it will be well received by the teachers. Nice job thinking outside the box, Everdeen. It reminds me of my ex-girlfriend who-"

"Focus, Peeta," I say sternly. "I don't care about your love life. I don't even really care about your _fictional_ love life with _me_ so let's get the work done, shall we?"

A look of hurt mixed with annoyance flashes across his face. I don't care. It exasperates me that we're supposed to be working and he keeps focusing on girls. The headband comes to the forefront of my mind again. What on earth was anybody doing leaving that behind at our table anyway?

"As you wish," he says coldly. "Do you want to do it as a math problem, then?"

"I'll write the essay up."

"No I'll do it," he says in a voice that won't be argued with. "It was my suggestion. Plus you did the leg work so I do the writing. You can get started on part three. It's not due until next Thursday so I have plenty of time to work on it with you once I'm done with this."

"It's my family that does the healing," I protest.

"I'm perfectly capable of writing a brief essay about it anyway," he retorts. "I've got Prim's suggestions."

"Do you even understand any of them?" I scoff.

He gives me a surprisingly effective glare with his one good eye.

"I can manage. I daresay I'm just as competent as you are at writing up something concerning emphysema or GI bleeds."

I scowl at him and he scowls right back. Neither one of us seems to want to be the first to break the staring match but after about a minute I decide to hand him victory, mostly because I can't stand looking at his black eye any longer. With a snort and a huff I turn to the final page of our current scenario.

"Should I tell you what it says or can you not be bothered until you're done paraphrasing my sister's suggestions?" I say in a snooty tone, not sure why I'm behaving this way.

"Geez," he says in a low tone and with a huff. I wonder if I've taken my sullenness too far but the memory of Mallory and his fake niceties fuels me on and I offer no apologies. "Go ahead, tell me what it says."

"It says we…" I get only a few words into the page before I cut myself off with a groan. "It says that as our second anniversary draws near we find out that we are expecting out first child, due to be born about halfway into our third year of marriage."

"Whoop-dee-do," he says in a low voice with all the enthusiasm of a seven year old who's got several pages of math homework to do before play time.

"I hate this," I sigh. If my mood was bad two minutes ago it's downright awful right now. I read through the rest of the text, quoting the important bits to Peeta. Most of the pregnancy-related details will surface in the next scenario but before we can close the books on our second year we have to do some homework and find out what baby paraphernalia our parents and other relatives have that we can borrow.

"The answer in my case is none," says Peeta, getting to work on his short essay. "Anything my parents have saved will end up in Scotti's nursery. If by some chance he doesn't produce offspring before I do, or he's done having kids by the time I get started, Ryean will have inherited all baby stuff."

"Yeah, unless neither one of them gets married or has children before you do. Or unless their wives have access to cribs and clothes and other baby crap and they don't _need_ whatever exquisite piece of furniture rocked the Mellark babies to sleep twenty-or-so years ago." I'm still on the offensive, my voice ice cold.

"I get the hint, I'll look it up 'till next week," he sighs, not taking his eyes from what he's writing.

Despite the answer I don't feel satisfied. In fact there's not a lot about this day that I feel happy about, which surprises me given the fairly pleasant previous hour. And for the first time since this project began Peeta and I spend the better part of the allotted time working in a silence that is neither comfortable nor casual. Every minute feels like an hour and when the clock finally rings I immediately smack my notepad shut and grab my things, shoving them haphazardly into my backpack to get going. I hear Peeta mumbling a half-hearted "thanks for today" but I don't respond.

* * *

The rest of the week I have had a lot to think about. I've been feeling off all week, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of Gale but also, surprisingly, with thoughts of Peeta. Mostly it's been Gale, but every so often the memory of Peeta with Mallory and of the hairband come floating to the forefront of my mind. I don't know why that is, or why it should bother me, and _that_ bothers me more than the rest of it.

On Wednesday I head straight for the woods after school is done and I stay there until well past dark. It's a few degrees below freezing and by now a light layer of snow covers the ground, making my surroundings seem lighter even after sunset. I don't have any luck hunting but I'm not trying to have any either. I'm mostly out here to think – and feel – but I'm not having much luck in either department. Finally I give up and head home, crawling under the fence at roughly eight o'clock in the evening. As I walk through the district towards the Seam I feel an odd sense of loneliness that I can't put my finger to. It's not the first time I've been out in the woods alone, far from it, nor is it the first time I've walked the streets after dark by myself. The loneliness comes from somewhere, or something, else and I wish I knew what it was.

A few blocks away from home I run into Gale. Both of us startle, looking the other up and down. He seems to be heading away from home, which is odd at this hour. He frowns and no doubt wonders why I'm not at home either at this point. For a minute or two we stand there awkwardly, neither one of us knowing what to say. Gale sticks his hands in his pockets and I bite my fingernails, wondering what to say.

"You're out late, Catnip," he finally says, his voice slightly strained. I relax at hearing him use the familiar nickname.

"So are you," I reply. "Going somewhere?"

"To pick up Rory. He's at a friend's house. My mother doesn't want him walking home alone this late."

"Oh."

Another moment of awkward silence follows.

"You, uhm…" Gale scratches the back of his neck. "You weren't in the woods on Sunday."

"No." After a few seconds I decide I should offer more of a response. "I had school work to do."

"Ah," he says in a tone that suggests he believes I'm making up excuses but he chooses to accept them.

"It was for the project," I clarify. "I wasn't able to get all the work done in time during class so…"

"Katniss you don't need to explain anything to me," he says. Another long moment of silence follows. I'm not sure what to do. It's never been like this between us before.

"Well, I… I should go," I finally say. "I should get back home. Prim and my mother, they… must be getting worried about me."

"Yeah," he nods. "Yeah, sure. Hurry home. I should get going too. Rory is waiting…"

I nod and fidget where I stand. Another long moment of silence stretches out between us until I finally mumble a "bye" and head for home. I resist the urge to turn back and look at him. The lonely feeling intensifies. It has never been this way between Gale and me before – _never_. And I blame the new romantic revelations. It has changed everything. There's no point in pretending we can go back to the way things were. Sure, our friendship is strong and will probably survive, but it won't be the same. Not by a long shot. Especially if I decide I don't want to be more than friends. Gale would never be able to look at me the same way and that works the other way around too. I would always be the girl who didn't want him and he… he would always be the boy who wanted me. Not my friend and hunting partner Gale, but the boy I turned down. And what if my feelings start to change later on, or I realize I actually have felt that way about him too all along? What then? I will have lost him for no good reason.

Haven't I lost enough in my life already?

* * *

Come Sunday I have made my decision. I spent most of Saturday night lying awake and thinking it over and in the end I came to the conclusion that there really is only one right choice to make. Once my mind was made up I went to sleep, only to be woken by my alarm two hours later. Yawning and shivering in the chilly room I got dressed and snuck out of the house to head for the woods.

The glade is empty when I arrive. I take my seat and fish out my small blanket, wrapping it around myself with a yawn, still shivering. Good thing it's cold out or I might have ended up falling asleep where I sit. Then again it's not just the temperature keeping me awake. My mind is made up but it will not be the easiest thing in the world to see the decision through.

I wait for twenty minutes and then Gale shows up. He seems relieved to see me yet he's more reserved than he was two weeks ago. I don't blame him. He told me what was in his heart and the next week I didn't even show up. No wonder he's a bit reserved. I offer him a small smile and pat the empty spot next to me on the log. He accepts my wordless invitation and comes over to sit. I'm glad when I see him fish out a thermos from his backpack and a few moments later I'm sitting with a mug of steaming hot tea between my cold hands. The smell makes my stomach growl.

"You look tired," he says.

"Nice way to compliment a girl."

"Is that something you want from me? Compliments?"

I don't answer. We sit silently together for a long while, watching the sun slowly rise over District 12's forests. I really love it out here. Winter is far from my favourite season but I do love how beautiful it makes the woods. Every tree branch seems to be glittering with frost and the thin layer of snow on the ground catches the early light of day. A few birds can be heard singing around us, sounding cheerful despite the cold. I finish my tea slowly and hand the mug back to Gale. He accepts it without a word. I wrap the blanket closer around myself and decide that it's time.

I don't look at him at first. I can't. I've never felt this uncomfortable around him but I'm telling myself that this feeling is natural. I'm about to take a very big step, one I've never taken before. I do not doubt that my decision is right. It's clear that I will lose Gale if I don't give a relationship with him a try and I can't have that. I love him, maybe just not like _that_ , not _yet_ , but what if he is right? What if that's the kind of love that will begin to grow on its own once I give it a chance to? Why should I throw my most important friendship away when the alternative is to give it a chance to grow and become so much more? Besides, how can I even be sure I _don't_ have those feelings for him already, only I've been too afraid to realize it? If I turn him down now I risk turning down a lot of very good and important things.

"I've been thinking," I say, shivering in the cold morning air.

"About what?" asks Gale.

I hesitate.

"You know about what."

I turn to look at him and find that he's watching me closely. He looks calm, yet I can sense that underneath his cool exterior he is strung as tightly as a bowstring. I think he's nervous too. If I don't tell him what he wants to hear then we might never sit here again, together like this, and I don't think he wants that any more than I do but he doesn't have a choice, just like I don't.

"I'm not ready for anything that moves too fast," I say, trying not to fidget nervously. "I've never... been anyone's girlfriend before." The word itself feels foreign when it leaves my mouth. "So if we could just take it slow..."

The grin that spreads across his face could melt the snow around us but it somehow fails to ease my discomfort.

"Catnip!" he grins. "We can take it just as slow as you want to. Just as long as you're mine and you love me too."

I open my mouth to protest to the use of the word _love_ but he mistakes my intentions and kisses me instead. This time, because my mouth is open, he moves his tongue inside. It startles me and I recoil but he seems to think I'm just gasping for air and moves in again. This time I'm a little bit prepared for it so I accept his kiss, trying to familiarize myself with the act. His hand ends up on the back of my head, the other hand caressing my cheek, and I find my own hands awkwardly fumbling with the hem of his jacket as his tongue moves into my mouth again. I close my eyes and try to figure out what I'm supposed to do. Gale seems to know exactly what to do, his tongue moving confidently in my mouth. Is this supposed to be something lovely, that thing I've read about in just about every story and every novel? Kissing, that thing that is supposed to be every couple's favourite thing to do, is this what it feels like? I'm not sure what I think of it but it's not exactly _lovely_. In fact it feels a little odd and very slobbery and Gale tastes of the cheap coffee most miners drink in the morning to help them wake up. Maybe I'm just not there yet. Maybe you have to get to the stage where you know you're in love before this feels amazing. Or maybe I'm just too nervous and self-aware right now. It's not painful or discomforting or anything like that so I suppose I don't really mind it very much. It feels odd, is all, though Gale moans a little into my mouth before he pulls back with a wide smile so I assume he doesn't find it weird.

"You're new at this, I can tell..." he smiles, a glint in his eyes that I've never seen before. I scowl, feeling insulted and belittled, but his hands are still in the same place they were when we kissed and I can't pull back. He laughs lightly and caresses my cheek with his thumb. "No, I like that. I like that I'm your first. It feels... right somehow."

"I'm not _your_ first," I point out.

"You're the first girl it's ever _meant_ something with."

He kisses me again and I try to figure out what that really means while his tongue explores my mouth. How many girls has he kissed without it meaning anything? Why did he kiss them if it didn't mean anything? I don't really care if he's kissed one girl or twenty but I can't figure out why anyone would do this if there wasn't some meaning behind it. I know that it happens, that it's fairly common even, but still. I can't seem to see the allure.

His hands are cupping my cheeks but slowly they begin to travel downward. They reach my shoulders and then continue down my sides until they're roughly where the back strap of my bra runs beneath my layers of clothes. His hands then shift direction and move forward, towards my breasts. Feeling very uncomfortable all of a sudden I push him off me and break the kiss.

"Gale!" I exclaim. "What are you doing?"

There's a look of surprise in his eyes, replaced for a brief second with what seems like anger and then turning into something else. Frustration? Acceptance?

"Okay, you're not ready for that just yet," he says. By the tone of his voice he is disappointed but accepts my rejection. I wonder if I overreacted since he would only have been touching my hunting jacket, strictly speaking, but I couldn't help the feeling that it wasn't okay. Then he actually chuckles and runs a hand through his dark hair. "Sometimes I forget how innocent you are, Catnip."

"I'm not innocent," I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. "I'm just not comfortable being felt up out here in the woods two and a half minutes after our first kiss."

He holds up his hands in a disarming gesture, his smile suggesting that he finds my reaction endearing. It only annoys me further. Does he suddenly see me as childlike and inexperienced? That doesn't rhyme well with what he wanted to do just moments before.

"Sorry," he says again. He chuckles slightly, as if he's a bit nervous too.

"Maybe that's enough kissing for one day," I say and begin to stand up.

"No!" His hand on my arm stops me. "No. I think we need a whole lot more kissing. In fact, who says we need to do any hunting today at all? We can take a day off and just spend the next few hours exploring each other. Kisses only, I promise."

"Gale," I say, frowning down at him. "Please be serious. Prim hasn't had a decent meal in days and I won't return home without game."

"Alright Catnip," Gale sighs and rises from the log. "How about we compromise? For every animal I bring down you give me a kiss."

I don't respond. Adjusting the quiver on my back I head off on one of the small paths that leads away from our glade. I'm not too happy with all this focus on kissing all of a sudden. I get that as boyfriend and girlfriend we're meant to engage in the activity on a regular basis but there's a time and place for everything. Also I suppose I was expecting us to start with closed mouthed stuff and take it step by step from there, not jump straight into tongue. I'm surprised at how easy-going Gale is being. He's usually dead serious when we're out in the woods and I know his siblings haven't eaten much in the past days either. Why he's more preoccupied with kisses than with hunting I don't know. I decide to treat his comments as jokes. It seems easier that way.

He only brings down the one animal and he gets a kiss in return for it. I, on the other hand, manage to rake up my number to four before we head back home. Gale wants us to stop in the glade on the way back and it turns out the reason is more kissing. I indulge him for a few minutes but then I feel compelled to remind him that we have hungry family members waiting for us to come back home.

"Okay Catnip, I get it," he chuckles, gently caressing my chin with his thumb. "I don't think your mother will approve of me much anyway if I return you back home with swollen lips and a flushed face."

Return me back home? I scowl and try to figure out exactly what he means by _that_. As if he's been borrowing me today or something? I groan inwardly, frustrated with myself. Had he said that six months ago I wouldn't have thought twice about it, written it off as good-natured ribbing. Today there's suddenly a possibility that it _means_ something. I can't help but find it all so very exhausting.

"We should go," I say, rising from the log. I'm eager to end this foray into the woods and have a bit of space to think things over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, end notes... A lot of people mention the slow burn and you should probably be warned that it will indeed be a very slow burn... As you probably figure at this point with the Galeniss situation. But I promise that "slow" will not equal "stand still".
> 
> Thanks for reading! I will try my best to have another chapter up within a couple of weeks.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry it's getting to be so long between updates, and that I'm not responding much in the comments section. I feel very bad about it and I don't want to be letting you all down. Real life just keeps getting in the way, both my personal life and work, and lately I've been struggling with writer's block. I'm doing what I can to get over the hump and I promise I haven't abandoned any of my ongoing Hunger Games stories. This story, in particular, is my "pet" for which I've got enough ideas to keep the story going until Katniss is middle-aged (okay, not really, but I've got a lot of ideas that extend beyond them finishing the project and graduating).
> 
> What I'm trying to say, really, is that even though there might be weeks between updates I haven't stopped working on the story and I hope you won't give up or get tired and move on. Thanks again for the patience you're all showing me!
> 
> As for this new chapter, it came with a new set of challenges that I guess you could call "world building". I still have my copies of the books lent to a friend so I've had to poke around online to try and find as many details as I can about the world and culture in District 12 that Collins built. Things like when the victory tour actually takes place (November? December?), what the Harvest Festival really entails and other things like that. In the end I decided that I might as well fill in the blanks for myself and make my own interpretation of it, but if anyone is an expert on these subjects feel very free to give me the details.
> 
> And with all of that said, here's the new chapter:

I don't feel much different. Should I feel different? I've begun a whole new chapter in my life, taken on a role I swore I would never take. My relationship with the most important person in my life outside of my immediate family has changed for good. I should feel those changes affecting me, shouldn't I?

Staring at my face in the mirror I can't help but wonder if there's something wrong with me. I look the same as usual. A little more starved and sunken-in perhaps but other than that there's nothing different about the face staring back at me. I hold my comb between my teeth while my hands work on the familiar braid and I wonder how much effect all of this will have in my day-to-day life. I'm not going to be one of those girls who shows up at school all aglow, unable to keep myself from talking about my newfound relationship bliss, giggling and smiling and whispering secrets with my friends. Nobody it school is going to know the difference. None of their business, what goes on in my love life.

I may not feel different, but I definitely feel something in the pit of my stomach. An almost uneasy feeling. The path I took my first steps down yesterday is not one to be taken lightly. I'm no longer just me, I'm somebody's… girlfriend, I suppose. _Gale's_ girlfriend. The mere thought sounds foreign but I tell myself I don't have to use that term just yet. After all, we never said we were going to instantly morph into one of those couples that walk hand in hand through town, whispering sweet nothing's in each other's ear, stealing kisses and making cute faces at each other and looking at each other with googly eyes. All we really decided was that we would give dating a try. That's the beauty of going down this road with Gale – we can have it be whatever we want it to be, and not be bound by the norms of how relationships usually go in District 12.

Finishing up my braid I give my bangs a quick comb-through and set the comb back down on the sink. Then I hurry to the kitchen to pack my meagre lunch for the day while Prim does her hair in the bathroom. My stomach growls as I stuff the small package of food into my backpack. A small tomato from our ever-shrinking supply and a quarter of a sandwich. I could have had a half but Prim needs the food more than I do. I resolve to head straight for the forest when school is done for the day. Out there by myself I can bring down something for us to eat and I won't have anyone for us to have to share it with.

* * *

The day goes by slowly, each class feeling like it lasts for a week. I spend the larger portion of the day in Madge's company but we don't talk much. We rarely do. I suppose I could tell her about what happened between me and Gale yesterday but I can't seem to find a reason to. I haven't even said anything to my mother and sister yet. I know Madge would be happy for me if I did tell her but I don't want to talk about it. What is there to say? Gale and I will try dating and that's all there is to it. I haven't shared much with Madge about my reservations when it comes to marriage so that leaves very little else to say. It will be different in a few weeks, when dating is something we've actually _done_ and not just something we've agreed to start doing.

A few times during the day I look over at Peeta, wondering what the mood will be like between the two of us when we meet up for the last class. We haven't spoken since last week. I hope it will be less tense today, more like the normal atmosphere between us. I didn't like the way it felt towards the end last time. Working with him has been easy for the most part and I hope it can be like that for the majority of the time this project lasts. He catches me looking at him once and I immediately turn my face away. His welt has begun to fade but there's still a prominent bruise underneath the eye. It's still uncomfortable to look at.

At long last the final class of the day arrives and Peeta and I make our way to our usual table without saying much to one another. We set our backpacks down and get everything we need on the table, including the scenario. Peeta breaks the silence and although there's some wariness in his voice he seems to at least want to put last week behind us and move on without things being awkward again. He's a much bigger person than I am. I'm really not sure what my behaviour was all about last week so I can't expect him to understand it, but I do know that if our roles had been reversed I would have been far less willing to let it all be water under the bridge. Fleetingly the thought passes through my mind that his father must be one of the kindest persons in all of District 12 to have given these traits to his son, or to have raised him to be this way despite the cold-hearted and borderline cruel woman who inexplicably contributed to a large part of Peeta's DNA and upbringing.

"So I asked my parents what baby paraphernalia they still have lying around…" says Peeta, scratching his chin. He's got a bit of stubble today, which doesn't happen often.

"And?"

He rolls his eyes.

"And my mother kindly informed me that my oldest brother has a serious girlfriend and is of marrying age so I should not expect to get to use those things, as no doubt Scotti will be busy putting new babies in the cradle at a regular pace well before I get around to turning nineteen and convincing some poor girl to wed me and bear my kids."

"Does she not grasp the concept of the project?" I ask, wondering to myself what is wrong with that woman.

"I'm joking, Katniss. Or exaggerating, as it were." He chuckles lightly, not sounding very happy. "I think I got her a little worried, to be honest, before Ryean reminded her that it's for school and that both he and Scotti did the same thing."

"Oh."

He picks up a sheet of paper and waves it about a little.

"Ryean sent this with me. _His_ calculation sheet from two years ago."

"He… kept… something like that?" I ask with incredulity.

"What can I say, my brother's got a bit of a thing for keeping track of where money goes and when we can save some."

"Peeta we can't use this," I point out. He scowls.

"Well why not?"

"Because it's cheating."

"How is it _cheating_?"

Sensing another argument coming up I bite back a groan and rub my temple with my index fingers.

"Because your brother just handed it to you. _He_ did that work, two years ago. We don't even know if it's accurate anymore."

"I don't know why you're trying so hard to pick a fight with me," Peeta replies in a calm, rational tone that makes me feel deservedly foolish. "It's just a tally of the things my parents still have at home from when we were babies. So what if Ryean wrote it down? The exact same things are going to be on my list anyway." The scowl disappears from his face and he tilts his head slightly, studying me. "Katniss… It's no different than getting Prim's help last week. The task was to do inventory on what things our parents kept. Does it matter if I got the information from my mother or my brother?"

"Fine," I mutter. "I'm sorry."

"Where's your list?"

The second he asks the question it dawns on me that I never even got around to doing it. My face freezes for a second and then I make a valiant attempt at seeming unfazed. Shit. How could I have forgotten this? How could I not have remembered a minute ago when we were talking about _his_ list? I can only imagine how much crap I'm going to get from him for having failed to do my part and then criticized him for how he did _his_ part. At least he put some bit of effort into it and brought it up with his parents. I've had so many other things on my mind this week that all of this completely slipped my mind. Unfortunately I'm silent for a bit too long and Peeta's scrutinizing gaze seems to easily pick up on the reason why.

"You didn't do yours?" He says it carefully, not accusingly. Not that it makes it any better. I make a face and open my notebook to an empty page.

"I… forgot it at home, I think," I mumble.

"Okay." He bites his bottom lip and drums his pencil against his pad for a moment while I doodle on my own pad, feeling foolish. What must he think of me right now? "Okay, well… We'll recreate it from memory, then."

"No…" I protest. Since I didn't actually do it obviously I can't remember what I supposedly wrote down on it.

"Come on, we can manage. It won't take long."

I cringe, trying to think of an out for this one. Meanwhile Peeta leans over his notepad and looks eager to serve as secretary. I rack my mind but all I can come up with are Prim's baby clothes that I once tried to sell to earn some money for food. The memory brings back a wave of painful memories and I can't stop the series of images that flash before my inner eye. The terrible hunger. The way my mother was impossible to reach. The state Prim was in. Sitting out there in the rain, more desolate than I have ever been before or since.

Peeta. Peeta throwing that bread to me.

"There is nothing," I then say, hating my voice for trembling.

Peeta's brow furrows slightly.

"What do you mean?" he asks softly.

"Prim's old baby clothes… and that's about it. Everything else was… gone a long time ago. In the Seam you… you don't have much."

"Do you want to just add the baby clothes to Ryean's list and hand it in that way, with no specifics on which household contributed what?" asks Peeta, his voice so understanding that it's almost unbearable. "Or just… write something frank about how not everyone has a lot of things to inherit from their parents? I mean, what's the point of just writing up a list of stuff, anyway?"

"Because that's what people would do in real life," I manage to answer. "And to make us think about what stuff you need when you have babies."

"Knowledge that's going to be superfluous to both of us, perhaps, anyway," he says, a soft smile on his face. Our eyes meet but I quickly have to look away. I don't know what to do when he shows me this kind of friendliness. "Look, I was the one who kind of cheated here by taking my brother's list."

"You weren't cheat-"

"How about you go over it and pick out a few things you feel might be reasonably 'left over' for me to inherit, we cross the rest off, and I'll write something about how we won't have all that much to work with because, well, not all people do… Especially those with older siblings and those whose families have needed money more than holding on to cribs and other sellable items."

I come very close to protesting. Peeta hasn't screwed up here – I have. But I don't know quite how to handle this surge of emotion washing through me right now without my façade cracking so I nod and hold out my hand to take his list, gratefully accepting his suggestion. Our hands meet when he hands the list over and we both seem to still for a second, the touch of his skin against mine strangely comforting. I look into his eyes and find kindness but not pity there. I don't know how he's interpreting my behaviour right now but he's letting me off the hook and I can do little more than accept it. I feel so utterly tired of fighting the conflicting emotions inside and putting on an indifferent face outward so I gladly accept this opportunity to pretend everything is alright and just do the work he suggests.

"Peeta…" I say, my voice slightly hoarse. The look in his eyes is reassuring and I find myself wondering how come he is so kind and patient with me when I'm being anything but friendly in return. In fact I've been acting terrible recently, letting the stress of my changing relationship with Gale and the vast number of uncertainties that await me if I survive the final reaping affect the way I talk to him. If the tables were turned I would probably have written Peeta off completely by now but he hasn't done that with me. I hope he knows that his patience doesn't go unnoticed, or unappreciated. "I…"

"Don't sweat it, Katniss," he says. I know he's referring to the list but I want to reassure myself by letting myself believe he's just as much talking about my behaviour as of late. "You'll cover for me when I have a bad week."

Is he even capable of having a bad week? Sure he must be, but unlike me he probably doesn't make everyone around him miserable for it.

"I'm glad I picked you to do the project with," I tell him. I think I see him startle slightly, as if my words are surprising to him. "I'm glad you asked me to pick you. You're smart and you're kind and you're innovative. I… Well, I…" I feel myself blush but I force myself to continue. I feel I owe him this. "To be honest with you I… was concerned that I would have a hard time working together with someone, because I barely even know any of you boys in our class. Aside from with Gale I've never had much experience with teamwork and so I thought... Well, just that I might not do so well, working with someone I hardly know. You've made it really easy for me to work together and I appreciate it."

A bashful smile spreads across Peeta's face and he turns his eyes away for a second, a reaction that I find so endearing that a warm surge goes through my heart. It seems completely sincere and that makes me like him even more. I almost want to add that he's humble and that I like that quality in him, too, but I don't want to overdo it. He turns his eyes back to me and along with the bashfulness I think I see genuine joy there as well. It makes me feel a bit funny, in a good way. I smile and his own shy smile becomes wider.

"Thank you," he says. "I'm glad you decided to choose me, too."

"But why?" I ask, the question slipping out spontaneously before I can think to hinder it. "I know I haven't been very nice lately." I bite my lower lip and look down at my hands. My fingers are busy tearing pieces from the napkin I wrapped my meagre lunch in. "And I haven't been… pulling my weight."

"Yeah you have."

"Even if I have…" I look back up at him and find his eyes fixated on me. There's an intensity in them, as if he's hanging on my every word. For some odd reason the detail that catches my attention the most is that his eyes are not the same shade of blue as Prim's and my mother's. I resist the temptation to shake my head to clear it of such random thoughts, but the fact that the thought popped in to my head to begin with just goes to show that I'm not focusing the way I should be. I chortle softly at my own odd behaviour and shrug a shoulder. "I guess I can't make sense of why you chose to ask me to partner with you. There are any number of girls in our class who would love to do a project like this with you. Maybe you just wanted the challenge, I don't know… But I'm glad you took the leap of faith."

The smile on his face is warmer now, more comfortable. It still touches some part of me that I'm not sure it ought to. His head tilts just slightly and his eyes narrow a touch, as if he's trying to figure me out.

"You have no idea, do you?" he asks.

"No idea, what?"

"The effect you can have."

He says it so simply, so unabashedly, that I don't know what to make of it. It's a compliment for sure, but it can't be the kind of compliment a boy gives to a girl he likes. It falls too easily from his lips for that. But it's also an odd compliment to give someone in any other form of context. It confuses me and I lean back slightly and scowl. Peeta chuckles softly and shakes his head just a little, and I'm glad he's not offended by my spontaneous reaction to his words. His eyes meet mine again for a second and it feels like there's something in his look that I ought to understand but right now I'm too thrown by his comment to do so.

"Back to work?" he suggests in a friendly tone. I smile, relieved that he's giving me the option to just put this aside for now and focus on what we're here for.

"Back to work," I agree.

It doesn't take me all that long to go over his list so while he works on putting something together in writing I go over the other work we've done for this leg of the scenario and make a few changes here or there as I see fit. Mostly it's just a way to pass the time. I know that I'm not contributing much but for once I don't care. As long as Peeta seems fine with it I can always make it up to him next week. When we have only five minutes left of class he hands me what he's written and I read through it. It's not very long but it's to the point. I could probably make a few alterations to it but I can't bring myself to do so. I simply nod, tell him it's good and hand it over.

"Okay," he says, stuffing his books into his backpack. "I'll hand everything in to Mr. Stoker."

"No…" I say, slowly standing up and beginning to gather my things. "Let me do that. You have wrestling practice to get to anyway, right?"

He looks at me for a second, then nods slightly.

"Okay. Okay, thanks."

"Don't thank me… You've handed in everything else so far. Only fair that it's my turn, right?"

"Right," he says, the hint of a smile on his face. He stands as well and wraps his scarf around his neck. "Well thanks for today, Katniss. See you tomorrow."

I nod and mumble something incoherent by way of reply. He gives me a look that I can best describe as supportive and then he's off, his jacket thrown over his arm and his backpack in his hand. I watch him go, waiting until he's out of sight before I gather up the pages we've worked on lately and put them all in the envelope to bring to our teacher. Despite my previous determination to go hunting after school today I feel like I want to do nothing more than go home and curl up on the couch and rest. That's a dangerous feeling to have.

I go to our homeroom and hand in the envelope, muttering something in response to whatever Mr. Stoker says when he takes the work. Then I walk to the doors while putting on my gloves, giving serious thought to actually going straight home and taking some time to try and get over all these annoying and conflicting emotions inside. But as I begin to walk through the streets of the Seam I see starving children playing, their noses running and their cheeks hollow. What these children wouldn't give to have some fresh meat on the table tonight, even if it is only a few bites of a squirrel shared three ways. How easily Prim could have been one of those children. Going home to relax and worry about myself seems unforgivable when I have the means of providing food for my family.

I turn on my heel and head straight for the woods.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon I'm on the couch with a book, enjoying the last bit of sunlight coming in through the windows. My knees are bent for the book to lean against and my head is propped up against the armrest. It's a beautiful sunny day and it would have been perfect for hunting but I didn't really feel up to it. I got lucky yesterday, shot a wild turkey, so we don't have to worry about food for a few days. It's been a while now since I last spent an afternoon on the couch with a book and it feels luxurious. Prim is on the floor, stretched out on her stomach reading her history textbook. She has a big exam coming up next week and history is not her favourite subject. Her legs are bent at the knees, her feet up in the air, slowly waving back and forth. In the corner of my eye I see her shooing away Buttercup who always wants to lie on whatever book she is reading, as if he finds it highly unreasonable that she should be devoting attention to her education instead of his ugly self.

A knock on the door makes both of us look up from our literature. Our mother is not at home, out tending to a sick neighbour, which means one of us has to get the door. With a huff I fold a dog ear on the page I was reading and put the book aside, getting up from my comfortable spot on the couch.

"Expecting anyone?" I ask my sister.

"No. You?"

"No. It's probably someone wanting to speak to Mother."

"Or maybe it's your good friend from school wanting to discuss something project related," suggests Prim with a sly smirk, raising an eyebrow at me. "Like the two of you going on a date for instance. Purely for research purposes of course."

"Really Prim, this one track mind teenager phase does not suit you," I say, though my tone is only mildly chastising. "And no, it's not Peeta."

"Would it really be the worst thing in the world if it were?" asks Prim, turning her eyes back to her homework. "He's cute and nice."

I let that comment be and make my way to the door, wondering to myself how long we can expect Mother to be gone and if I should just ask whoever's at the door to come back later this evening. Hopefully it's not an emergency. When I open the door I'm surprised to find Gale standing there. He must be on his way home from his shift; his hair is a sweaty mess, he's in his work overalls and there seems to be coal dust all over him. I rarely see him like this. He usually cleans himself up between getting off from work and meeting up with me. I wonder why he's here at this hour. I hope no one is sick in his family, or that nobody's had an accident in the mines.

"Gale!" I say, relieved when he grins widely at me. If he's smiling like that then obviously nothing terrible is amiss.

"Hey you." He leans in as if to kiss me but thinks the better of it and pulls back again with a slightly awkward chuckle.

"What are you doing here?"

"Who is it?" comes Prim's voice from the sitting room.

"It's just Gale!" I call back to her.

"'Just' Gale, huh?" he says with a teasing smirk. He seems to be in a very good mood, which is nice to see for a change. "I would have thought after the other day I would be a little bit more than that to you."

"As far as Prim is concerned you're the same Gale you've always been. Do you want to come in?"

"No… No, I can't stay. I just wanted to stop by and see you."

"Oh. Well… You're seeing me." I don't really get it but he laughs lightly and reaches out his hand, his dirty thumb giving my cheek a caress that no doubt leaves a black mark. "You sure that's… all?"

"Well I _was_ thinking…" He looks over my shoulder and then steps closer so he can speak in a low voice for only me to hear. "Have you told them yet? About us?"

I haven't. There's not much to tell as far as I'm concerned. We said we would try this out and see where it goes. Since we're taking it slow I've seen no reason to tell my family, although when I got back home on Sunday I felt sure they could read on my face that I had had my first kiss. Turns out I wasn't as easy to read as I had expected.

"Have you told your family?" I ask.

"My mother is really excited," grins Gale. "Of course, she thinks of you as a second daughter already, and has for years." He leans against the doorpost, his hand again coming up to caress my cheek. "But you haven't told Prim and your mother yet?"

"No," I admit.

"Then how about I come by for dinner this evening? We can tell them together."

"I think they would find it strange that you came over for dinner on a regular Tuesday," I say. "I'll tell them in my own time. You know, we said we would take it slow."

"I'll take it as slow as you want. We should tell our families though. It's not like we have anything to hide."

"No I know, but…" Crossing my arms beneath my chest I lean against the wall, making a face as I struggle to find the right words. Gale's excited expression begins to fade and the traces of a scowl begins to appear. I don't want that. He's happy and I want him to be happy. "I don't necessarily want to _hide_ anything," I tell him. "It's just… I don't want to make too big a deal out of it too soon. Does that make sense? I don't want the pressure."

The scowl is now in place on his face but he doesn't look disapproving so much as he looks like he's trying to figure out what I'm saying. I find some measure of relief in that.

"I completely understand if you don't want to tell everyone we know right away," he says slowly. "But your family… To be honest I don't know what you mean exactly by 'too big a deal'."

I cast a glance over my shoulder, in the direction of the sitting room. I lower my voice a little, even though it's unlikely that she can hear us.

"Prim's going through some sort of boy-loving phase right now and both she and my mother are starting to sound like they think it's about time I got a boyfriend," I begin to explain.

"That doesn't sound much like either one of them," says Gale.

"I know… But right now I think they'd make a huge deal out of it if I told them about… Well, I mean, I think they'd more or less start planning our toasting."

"That _really_ doesn't sound like them," Gale chuckles. "But okay, I see your point. We'll wait a few weeks, until you feel comfortable telling them." He gives me a warm smile that highlights his handsome features. "Sound good?"

I nod slightly. He opens his mouth to say something else and I roll my eyes, grab him by the hand and pull him inside, closing the door shut behind him.

"It's freezing outside," I point out. "If you're going to stay and talk you might as well come inside the house."

"Bossy, bossy," he laughs.

"More like cold," I say, fidgeting a little. "Well, uhm… Do you want to have a seat or something?"

"As I said, I really can't stay. A glass of water would be nice, though." I nod and head to the kitchen, Gale in tow. "Are they home?" he stage whispers, making me roll my eyes again.

"Prim is in the sitting room, as you already know," I say. I walk over to the sink and grab a clean glass, filling it up with water. "Actually, speaking of Prim…"

"Yeah?" He takes the glass and downs half of it in loud gulps. It fascinates me how he can be almost eerily quiet out in the woods and make so much noise drinking a glass of water in the safety of my home.

"I would appreciate it if you told your brother not to mention anything to her. About… this…" He raises an eyebrow and I scowl. "Look, they go to school together. I suppose they talk every once in a while. I don't want her finding out from him."

"Another reason why you should tell them yourself right away," he shrugs. "But sure, I'll ask him to keep it quiet." He gives me a wink. "Anything for my girl."

I don't know how to respond to that, feeling surprisingly awkward about it. I grab a glass for myself, just to have something to do, and fill it about halfway with water, taking just the one sip before I set it down on the counter. I hear Gale's soft chuckle and it both confuses and irritates me. He steps closer, setting his own glass down right beside mine. There's plenty of space for the glass on the rest of the counter but by setting it beside mine he has to step real close. I look up at him and see the warmth and intensity in his eyes. Then I hear Prim's footsteps approaching and I grab my glass again and hurriedly move a few steps away to put a bit of distance between us.

"Hi Gale!" Prim chirps as she walks in.

"Hi Prim." He sounds casual, perfectly normal. "How are you?"

"Swell. Thirsty." Gale is standing in the way of the faucet so I wordlessly hold out my glass to her and she takes it. As she drinks she looks from me to Gale, no doubt noticing the odd silence between us. "This is kind of funny, Katniss," she then says. "Am I to get accustomed to you having lots of boys over nowadays?"

I scowl. Gale looks perplexed, and chuckles uncertainly.

"Prim…" I warn, but she takes no heed.

"Peeta last week, you today," she says to Gale. "My big sister is becoming popular. It's about time, if you ask me."

I don't know how to react. I can't be mad at Prim. She has no idea that what she's saying is a bad thing to say. Had it been a few weeks ago I wouldn't have seen anything wrong with the comment either, written it off as a bit of fond sisterly teasing. I know she would never say or do anything to put me in an awkward position and in this case it is all on me that she doesn't know her comment is inappropriate. Not that it _is_ inappropriate, it's just that it might be a touchy subject. I struggle to keep my face neutral and a glance at Gale tells me he's valiantly doing the same. I can tell he's clenching his teeth, his cheek twitching slightly, but he keeps his thoughts to himself while we have company. In fact he manages to sound almost casual when he speaks, though the look he gives me is most definitely disapproving.

"You had Peeta here?" His voice seems to break just a touch and he harks. "I mean… A _merchant_ kid?"

"They don't bite, you know," smiles Prim. "He's actually really nice. He and Katniss are working together for this elaborate school project where they pretend to be married and they have to-"

"I know about the project," says Gale shortly.

"He did the same thing two years ago," I point out.

"Though my partner never came to my house."

"Your project lasted three weeks," I remind him.

Prim, who seems unaware of the tension between us, walks over to the faucet and Gale steps aside so she can fill up her glass again. She leans back against the counter and takes two more gulps before turning to Gale.

"I think even you might like this merchant kid," she says, a slightly teasing touch in her voice. "He's really kind. He brought us cookies! Well, his father sent them with him. They were amazing." For a moment I almost forget my desire to usher her out of the room before she says something else that will make the situation worse. The way her eyes light up at the memory of those cookies almost takes the scowl off my face. Then she continues talking and I regret not making her leave right away. "Oh, and I think he likes Buttercup. You should have seen it – or heard it, really. He and Katniss, they-"

"Prim, we were kind of in the middle of something," I cut her off, giving her a pointed look. She pauses and looks from one of us to the other, clearly not understanding what is going on. "Could you give us a minute?"

She raises her eyebrows but shrugs and heads for the sitting room, giving Gale a wave as she goes. Once she's gone I look at Gale and bite my bottom lip. He's crossed his arms and he leans against the counter, scowling deeply at me. The look he's giving me rubs me the wrong way. I don't know what he thinks he's disapproving of but Peeta was here for school work and it happened before I agreed to date Gale. Even if I had invited Peeta over for the kind of "fun" you usually have to go to the slag heap for at our age, it would have been none of Gale's business.

"Were you going to tell me about this?" he finally says, after probably five minutes of uncomfortable silence between us.

"What is there to tell?" I shrug. "We didn't get all the work done in time during class so we met up to finish it in time."

"That project was hardly taxing," argues Gale. "How did you even manage not to finish in time during class?"

Somehow I manage not to blush, thinking back on the conversation – and the images in my mind – that stalled us. None of that is any of Gale's business either. I give him my best stern look and cross my own arms, mirroring his position.

"Well we didn't, and Peeta was here, and we did the rest of the work then. I told you before that I had to catch up on the project on my spare time. Is it _that_ surprising that Peeta had to do the same?"

For a moment we simply stare at each other, locked in some unspoken argument – almost like a battle of some kind. I don't really understand it. I get that he dislikes it but I don't know why he feels like he has the right to let it show – to even _question_ that Peeta was here. A week before I agreed to date. Already I'm beginning to second-guess my decision, worrying that the choice I made has only led to complicating everything. Maybe Gale sees some of this in my face because he is the first to look away, the first to falter.

"Okay, well…" He sounds hesitant but no longer as disapproving. "Is this going to become a regular thing? Him coming over here to study?"

"I don't know," I tell him. "I hope not," I add truthfully. I had a good time working with Peeta in this kitchen but the project should be taken care of during school hours.

Our eyes meet again. There's another pause.

"Cookies, Catnip?"

"His father sent them," I say defensively. "Trust me, I wasn't happy to accept them. I don't like hand-outs."

He shakes his head, snorting with disbelief.

"Who even does that? Bring someone you barely know cookies? He's trying too hard."

"Trying too hard to do what?"

Gale walks up to me and wraps his arms around me. I tense up, my eyes moving around the room, unable to look into his.

"I have to get going," he says. "Come here. Not that we had an actual fight or anything, but let's kiss and make up before I go." He moves in to kiss me and I place both my hands on his chest, keeping him at bay.

"Gale, not here," I hiss through gritted teeth. "Prim is in the other room!"

He leans in and gives me a quick kiss anyway.

"She didn't walk in on us. We're in the clear." He kisses me again and then lets me go. He heads for the front door and I follow. "Listen, if you're not busy much this week, how about going for a walk together some night?"

"Okay."

"Good," he grins, stopping at the door. "Sunday is so damn far away. I need to see you much sooner than that. Tomorrow good?"

"I don't know," I say evasively. "Why don't I stop by you some evening, when I'm done with homework and everything?"

"You got it," he nods. He looks over my shoulder to make sure we're alone, then leans in and presses his lips against mine for several seconds. "Bye now, Catnip," he whispers. Then he opens the door and steps outside, moving quickly to keep the cold wind out.

"Bye…" I mumble at the closing door.

I remain in place for several minutes, staring at the door, trying to wrap my mind around what happened while he was here. How different everything was. Though was it actually because we're now _together_ or am I just making a big deal out of it and that is the reason why things felt odd? I'm not sure I will be able to figure out the answer and I'm not sure it matters. At the end of the day, our new relationship status is the reason. I wonder to myself how much time it will take, how long my adjustment period will need to be. I'm eager to be done with it and go back to being my regular old self with Gale, back to being _us_ , the way I'm used to. Maybe I should stop by his house tomorrow and take that walk. Maybe we should take a walk together every day for the next few weeks, until I've gotten used to our new arrangement. Perhaps then it will feel right to tell Prim and my mother.

* * *

The following Monday Peeta and I have the absolute pleasure of digging in to the next leg of the scenario – the leg in which the unavoidable children start piling up. A description that makes Peeta laugh when I say it, though he valiantly tries to rein his amusement in. I roll my eyes good-naturedly and tell him to have at it. I like when I'm able to make him laugh.

"Well, darling project-wife," he says, chuckling lightly. "We don't actually know what this next part entails until we do the whole dramatic opening of the envelope." He says the last part like an exciting punchline in a mystery story.

"Yeah, I'm on the edge of my seat here."

He makes a face, his fingers fiddling with the large, brown envelope that holds our pretend-future.

"It really isn't imaginative of them. Do you suppose all pairs get the pregnancy part at some point?"

"Most likely. Maybe we should consider ourselves special that we got the thrill of losing everything we own to a fire first, coupled with my mother's dreadful disease."

His mirth seems to have gone away and he looks at me with a serious, almost compassionate face.

"You know, I almost wish we could have written something early on about how we wouldn't try to have kids. I mean, it's pointless for us to do this part, isn't it? The irritating thing is that there are numerous reasons why people might opt not to have children – not _wanting_ to being a pretty weighty one – but we both know that anything we handed in listing why we would make that choice would ultimately be seen as trying to avoid… you-know-what."

I tilt my head to the side, studying him with interest.

" _I_ don't want to have children," I say, my voice automatically slipping into the hushed tones we always use when speaking about these sort of things. "Doesn't mean it will be pointless for _you_ , though."

He shrugs.

"I told you, I'm not sure I want to be a father."

"Yeah… But still. 'Not sure' means you could still choose to be one someday. Like if the woman you fall in love with wants kids."

Our eyes meet for a long moment. He is the first to look away, holding the envelope out to me in offering but I shake my head, encouraging him to open it instead. He nods slightly and gets to it, fishing out numerous pages stapled together.

"Want me to read aloud?"

"No," I say, shrugging a shoulder. "Read it first, it's okay. I'm going to be sitting here silently, keeping my fingers crossed that they make it about _something_ more than babies. If I'm going to be saddled with pretend-children I don't want everything else in my pretend-life to screech to a halt because of it."

"You're making me nervous," he says, and I think he's joking but I'm not entirely sure. He then begins to read through the first page and I see him scowl. He flips to the next page, eyeing through the whole thing briefly. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving the ashen curls in disarray, then draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He puts the new scenario down on the table and pushes it towards me but I make no move to reach for it.

"Okay, so year three is all about our upcoming bundle of joy," he says.

"Yeah, I figured," I sigh.

"It's going to be… a lot of stuff."

"Let me guess – calculate how much it will cost us to buy everything we need to have before the baby comes? Because there can never be enough _calculating_." I can't help but scowl and shake my head slightly. "You know, I find it ridiculous. People were procreating for tens of thousands of years before we had stuff like cribs and baby bottles and even _diapers_. How come it suddenly costs money to take care of babies? Do we actually _need_ all the stuff we're told we have to get?"

"I don't know, Katniss," he shrugs. "Maybe the Capitol just sees it as a golden opportunity to get rich from convincing us we need to buy all that stuff they sell here at the market. Maybe child mortality rates have significantly gone down since people started having all that stuff. Maybe both are true, or not true, or it's all about something else…" He shrugs again and leans back in his chair, drumming his pencil against the table, producing an annoying sound. "Anyway, that's just part of it. For the scenario, I mean. We'll have to name our fictional bundle of joy, for one thing."

"Name it whatever," I shrug. "Doesn't matter. It doesn't actually exist and it never will exist."

"Still… It's going to be a part of the rest of the project. We can find a nice name for it, I'm sure."

"By your own words, it's an _it_. Not a baby. But sure, whatever. Like I said, pick something. I don't care. What names do you like?"

"Okay, leaving that for now…" he says, making a face. He leans back over the table and clasps his hands on the desk. "Here's one you're going to love. We each have to write an essay, minimum five pages, on our expectations of parenthood. What we look forward to, what – besides the obvious – we fear, what we think we'll be good at… There's, like, a third of a page just listing stuff that needs to be in this essay. And when we're done with _that_ , we have to write _another_ essay _together_ , in which we discuss what values we think are most important to pass on to Fiction Baby and what we think a child needs growing up – including but certainly not limited to food, clothes and shelter. It's going to be a whole lot of work. This time around, yeah, it's all pregnancy and babies."

"What a child needs?"

"And how we want to raise this pretend love child of ours."

"No physical punishments," I say, looking him straight in the eye. It is probably a mistake to spell it out that I know what his mother does to him; despite the black eyes and other injuries he's never said a word to me to confirm that Mrs. Mellark caused them. I don't regret saying it, though. It's something I wholeheartedly believe, something I could never imagine doing to my own children, and it needs to be in that essay. Peeta meets my eyes steadily, and answers with a nod so small it's barely there.

There's a long moment of silence between us, a comfortable one. I almost feel compelled to reach out my hand and place it on top of his. Strange as it may be, I find myself feeling almost excited about our upcoming joint-effort essay on how to raise children. I quite enjoy discussing things with Peeta, hearing his opinions. I'm mostly used to debating things with Gale and he and I are both so hot-tempered that when we disagree on something the discussion can get pretty heated. Even when we are in agreement we can sometimes rile each other up to a point that's a little over the top. Peeta, on the other hand, is calm and rational and doesn't let his emotions and opinions get the better of him. At the same time he doesn't make me feel like he's the voice of reason and I'm irrational, the way my mother sometimes makes me feel when she counters one of my more passionate arguments with cool and calm sense.

"So what do you want to get started on?" Peeta asks. "Our separate essays? Seems we could write those at home."

"Yeah," I nod.

"Our joint essay? Or… the fun and innovative calculations?"

The corner of my mouth turns upward.

"How about choosing a name for our little bundle of economic burden?"

"I thought you didn't care about that," he challenges good-naturedly, raising his eyebrow.

"Well, on second thought I realize that leaving it all up to you would probably result in me being the pretend mother of little Cookie Crisp Mellark, and _that_ is one name I'm not okay with, even in fiction."

He pulls his lips into his mouth in an attempt not to laugh. After a second or two he winks at me and gives me a grin.

"Actually I was thinking we'd go with Baguette. For a boy. Pastry for a girl."

"I don't know which is worse," I reply. He begins to chuckle and I follow suit. "I think I'm voting for Cookie Crisp, after all."

He shakes his head, chuckle turning into laughter. I watch with fascination as the ashen curls bounce over his brow with the movement of his head.

"Cookie Crisp?" he echoes. "Maybe we should leave the naming for later. Like, after the kid is born. And right now I'm hoping it's a boy."

"Who says I meant that name for a girl?"

"I'm really starting to see the merits of you never having kids," he grins and I can't help but laugh a bit as well. Our eyes seem locked together and it takes us a few minutes to settle down and get somewhat serious again. Our eyes stay on each other the entire time.

* * *

We spend about half an hour working on what we deem to be the dullest part – the by now tedious calculations – so we can move on to the more inspiring parts later. Not that I find _any_ of it all that _inspiring_ but I'm sick to death of the math portion of this project and I want it out of the way as soon as possible. We don't speak much while we work, mostly trading comments and questions here and there, but the mood between us is relaxed and comfortable.

"So are you going to the Harvest Festival?"

Peeta's query comes out of nowhere and takes a moment to sink in, my brain not expecting topics not related to the calculations at hand. I give him a slightly dumbfounded look. What's with the stupid question? The Harvest Festival is a more or less mandatory event that's supposed to symbolise how grateful we are for the bountiful gifts bestowed upon us by the Capitol. There are hardly any farmers in Twelve so there's very little actual _harvest_ to feast over but that's never seemed to matter. I don't mind the occasion in itself as it brings a bit of warmth and cheer to an otherwise dark, cold and gloomy time of year but I resent how we have to go out in public and attend the official festivities. It reminds me far too much of the Reaping even if in this case it's an entirely different sort of gathering. You have to have attendance noted by a peacekeeper and if you're lucky you can slip away from the town square really fast and the powers that be will be none the wiser. If you're not so lucky you can be stuck in the crowds for hours. The festivities themselves mostly centre around a very meagre offering of food and some dancing that is supposed to be joyous and festive. It all rings false to me but meagre food is better than no food and I don't have any problem with that part of the program.

"I'm not on my deathbed," I answer Peeta's question. "So I guess I will be going."

"Great." He leans back in his chair and chews on the back of his pen for a second. "Why don't we go together? Check out how slim the pickings are at the food table this year, make sure to look very busy talking to one another so we're not roped in to dance, maybe score a few extra points on this project by seeming like we're doing research..." The last bit is said with a little too much lightness, like he added it just to take some edge off and make it seem more humorous when I can tell it's not.

"You mean like... a date?" I ask, dreading the answer.

He shrugs a shoulder and sounds a little too casual when he answers.

"If you want to call it that."

"I can't." I look down at my papers and try to sound casual too. "I'm going with Gale. We're... going out now."

It takes a second for him to answer but I'm keeping my eyes busy on the papers in front of me so I don't know what expression is on his face. For some reason I find I really don't want to know.

"Oh..." he then says. He harks and leans back over his own papers. "Sorry. I didn't mean to... That's great for you guys."

"Yeah," I mutter, hoping he won't ask any questions or want to talk about this development between Gale and myself.

"Back to work then," he says awkwardly.

"Yeah."

He doesn't say anything else and the silence is awkward, which I'm not really used to with Peeta. After a few minutes I glance up at him. He's working on some math problem it seems, his brow furrowed and his pencil drumming against his teeth while he thinks. Does he look like somebody who just got shot down and is feeling disappointed or upset? I've never had to make anyone feel that way before so I'm not sure. With Peeta I sometimes find it's hard to tell what he's thinking or feeling. He's very good at keeping his emotions close to his heart and I get the sense that he is someone who could be hurting deeply on the inside and nobody around would have any idea. I envy him for that. All of my emotions seem to be written on my face.

"You could go with Mallory Grey," I blurt out, stupidly thinking that by suggesting someone else he could spend time with there the awkward mood between us now might go away. I realize how ridiculous that notion is the second the words leave my mouth and the look Peeta gives me actually seems hurt.

"I'm not really fond of Mallory Grey," he answers shortly.

Right. Now I feel even more stupid.

"Sorry," I mumble under my breath.

He doesn't acknowledge my comment and I don't expect him to. I feel like a real idiot and a very insensitive one at that. It could be that he was just being nice in offering and that he thought we could have a good time hanging out at the festival as friends but there is also the possibility that there was something else behind his words and if that's the case I really gave a bad answer. Deciding that I've said enough stupid things for one afternoon I don't bother apologising. Doing that might just make things worse anyway. Better to just pretend the conversation didn't take place or that it wasn't such a big deal. Hopefully Peeta will have forgotten all about it by next week and things can go back to normal between us.

I hear him draw a deep breath through his nose and slowly exhale. I glance up at him for a brief second and wonder what he's thinking about right now. I can't seem to stop my own mind from drifting to what it would be like to attend the Harvest Festival with him, though I'm not sure why my mind should even go there. Shouldn't I be excited to attend it with Gale - my boyfriend? Why would my mind even entertain the idea that I might have a good time, a better time, with my project partner?

And why am I on some level relieved to know he won't be attending the feast with Mallory Grey?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought of it. I really, really hope I'll have another chapter up soon (although as soon as my writer's block clears up for real I'm going to focus on finishing "Birthday").


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter I took the liberty of doing my own interpretation of the Harvest Festival since I can't remember more than one or two details about it being given in the book. I allowed it to be what I wanted it to be. But if anyone knows more about it (does it get elaborated on in any official guides or such?) I would love it if you could give me the details in the comments!

"Katniss, wait!" says Prim, giving my arm a gentle tug.

I stop even though we're running late and ought to hurry up. Our mother is waiting for us at home with a pile of clothes that need to be mended before the sun sets and the lighting gets too poor. Prim and I went out to buy her more thread and head straight back but the once so shy and withdrawn Primrose Everdeen has begun to come out of her shell and take an interest in socializing. Not in a particularly active way, not yet at least, but she likes to watch and observe and listen. Which is fine by me, even though I can't help but slightly lament the loss of the girl I've loved and protected for as long as I can remember, no matter how sure I am that the woman she is about to become will be just as amazing, if not more so. But her desire to walk around the Hob and soak it all in has made us late. And now she's stopping again, this time outside the bakery.

"Prim, sweetheart, we're already late," I remind her mildly.

"I know," she says, a touch of guilt in her voice. "But can we just… stop for a second? Look at the cakes?"

We really oughtn't to. Mother is waiting, Prim has homework to do when we get back, and I feel we're both getting a little too old to be standing outside the bakery ogling the delicious cakes and pastries that we'll never have the money to afford. It was one thing when Prim was younger but now that she's becoming an adult it feels a bit undignified. But despite all of that I can't bring myself to deny her this small joy. So I give her a little smile and a nod, coming with her as she walks up to the window to gaze at the cakes inside.

"Oh Katniss, look at that one," she breathes, pointing to the second one to the right. A beautiful cake covered in green marzipan, decorated with small, near perfect chocolate pinecones in a circle around the edges. At the centre of the cake is a lifelike squirrel carved out from what looks like a very thin slice of chocolate. In its hands the squirrel holds a real hazelnut.

"It's beautiful," I say with awe.

"I bet if you could buy any cake in the shop it would be that one," says Prim.

"I would," I nod. Other cakes in the display window are more beautiful but this one feels so right for me. I feel a twinge of sadness knowing I will never be able to afford a cake like this, unless maybe I fell a deer. And even if I did, cakes would be the last thing we needed. I take my eyes off the cake and point to another one. "And you would get that one, perhaps."

This one is heart-shaped, presumably intended for a toasting, and just like the forest themed one it's covered with marzipan, only it has two different colours. Bright red marzipan covers about two thirds of the cake, ending in a diagonal line running from top to bottom, and the last third is black. From our viewpoint the red covers the right side and parts of the left, as if symbolising standing opposite your love and seeing their actual heart. The diagonal line where red gives way for black is decorated like a vine with roses which I find a little stupid since I've never seen roses grow on vines. The vine and roses on the black side are red and vice versa. It's not the kind of cake that would appeal to me but I can hear Prim sight wistfully and I'm sure a lot of people would find it romantic.

"Someday I would hope…" Prim begins but she drifts off when a pair of hands reach down and grab the platter the cake rests on. We both look up and find ourselves face to face with Peeta.

Immediately I feel my cheeks heat up and I bite my bottom lip, turning my face away. I feel stupid and embarrassed, not just to be caught staring at the cakes at my age but at looking into Peeta's eyes for the first time since the awkward end to our project hour this week. I've been a little worried all week about whether or not it will be uncomfortable when we sit down to work on Monday and this moment is not helping.

"Oh it's Peeta!" chirps Prim. Her hand flies up and she begins to wave eagerly. And here I was hoping I could just grab her by the hand and walk away.

"So it is," I manage, hoping I don't sound as strained as I feel.

"Katniss why aren't you looking back at him?" she says in a chastising tone. "He's waving, it's rude not to wave back."

I'm very much tempted to remind her who started the waving mere seconds ago but instead I try to arrange my features in a casual, carefree manner and turn my face back to meet his eyes. He is indeed waving at us and I manage a half-hearted wave in return. I wish he would just grab the cake already and bring it over to whoever is looking to buy it. I'm sure their customers don't appreciate waiting around while he exchanges silent greetings with Seam girls who are too poor to afford the cakes they're admiring through the window.

It surprises me a little to see that he's smiling at me, not a forced or uncomfortable smile but a warm and genuine one. His blue eyes are friendly and even seem like he's happy to see me, which throws me off a little. The corners of my own mouth turn upward and even though my smile can in no way compete with his easy-going and welcoming one I think it at least seems not unfriendly. It relaxes me a touch that when our eyes meet he doesn't appear to be upset with me about earlier this week. Then he turns his eyes back to the cake, lifts it up on its platter and the moment is gone. He carries it off to the customer that is waiting for it, presumably some townie about to get married this weekend, and Prim and I are left standing there like we were before.

"Well…" I say after a few seconds of silence. "I think that marks the end of our window shopping for today." I take her hand and give it a squeeze. "Come on. Mother is waiting for the thread, and I'm going to get started with supper while she does the mending."

Prim's face lights up in a bright smile at the mention of supper. We have meat on the table today and her excitement is contagious, bringing a smile to my own lips. We begin our walk back home, discussing the cakes in the window all the way home. It feels like old times, like she is still my little kid sister.

* * *

We're fifteen minutes in to our project work for the week. I'm busy trying to finish my five page essay and Peeta is brushing up the language on his, both of us working mostly in silence. I struggled all week trying to get my essay done while Peeta, star student that he is, wrote nine pages and is now trying to trim it down. I have a feeling that might be because I sure as heck won't be producing nine pages worth of essay and it would look odd if one of us handed in almost twice as much material as the other. Of course he would write more than me on this topic. This interests him far more than it interests me but more importantly it's something that might be of use to him one day. It's something he's probably thought about at some point so putting those thoughts down on paper must have been quite easy. If I am to be perfectly honest with myself I'm glad he got so inspired. I believe he meant everything he said to me about possibly not wanting children because of the world we live in but somehow that makes me sad, just like the idea of Prim choosing not to have children would make me sad. Furthermore I don't want him to hold himself back on this because he doesn't want to make me feel odd or uncomfortable. Apparently there are a lot of thoughts and ideas in his head about this and I'm glad he's felt comfortable expressing them. For me on the other hand writing this essay has been like pulling teeth. It's been such a struggle that I didn't even manage to put a single sentence to paper until Friday evening after a walk with Gale, during which we talked about it and he insisted that I had a solid starting point – what I think I would be good at. He told me to draw from all the ways I've taken care of Prim over the years, which turned out to be very good advice. It even gave me an opening for writing about what my fears would be since there are things I fear for Prim that aren't directly related to the Hunger Games – such as starvation or not having enough warm clothes. Writing about practical things like that comes much easier to me.

Now, one weekend later, I still haven't written a single word about what I look forward to about parenthood. Unsurprisingly this turned out to be the hardest part. At the start of the hour Peeta asked if I was done with my essay and I told him the truth, and to my relief he just shrugged and offered to help me if I needed it but otherwise there was no rush. The whole thing isn't due until the end of the month anyway, which means I have two more weeks to work on it. Since Peeta wanted to keep polishing his mastodon of an essay we agreed to devote the first half hour to this and I've been sitting here racking my brain ever since. I'm beginning to consider asking him for some help but I don't like having to do so. Maybe I can ask my mother instead. Perhaps she can tell me what she looked forward to when she found out she was pregnant with me, and build from that.

My concentration is broken momentarily when Peeta hiccups. I cast a glance at him. His eyes are glued to the essay in front of him, his pencil drumming against his cheek. I return my gaze to my work and think nothing more of it until he hiccups again a few seconds later. I can't help but notice that his hiccups sound a little funny, not like what I would have expected from a guy in his late teens who is a stocky wrestler. The hiccups are not loud like Gale's but almost soft and a little high-pitched. He continues to have the hiccups for several minutes and after a while I have to press my lips together to keep back a chuckle.

"Do I need to scare you?" I finally ask, biting the back of my pencil to try and mask the grin that's spreading across my face.

"What?" he asks absent-mindedly, looking up at me. He hiccups again and then looks a bit embarrassed, his cheeks flushing in a way that's undeniably endearing.

"Hiccups can be tough," I say, as if we're talking about some much more serious ailment, such as a broken bone or a migraine.

"I'm a tough guy," he answers in a tone that matches mine. I grin, and when he hiccups again I can't hold back a chortle. "Yeah, okay, maybe a quick scare wouldn't hurt." His eyes go back to his schoolwork. "Hiccups may not be dire but they're annoying."

I pick up a piece of paper from the table and hold it up in a ceremonious fashion.

"Peeta Mellark!" I pretend to read in my best Effie Trinket impersonation.

The look he gives me is highly questioning yet not entirely unamused.

"Yeesh. That is some brutal comedy, girl."

Crossing my arms on the table I lean forward, my eyes peering into his.

"Did it work?"

"Guess we'll know soon enough." Just seconds after he says this he hiccups again. He shrugs and sighs with exasperation. "You fail hard at being scary."

"Well maybe I don't want to scare you," I say, tilting my head as I look at him. "Not really." The odd thing is that the words seem altogether true when I say them. "I'm your pretend-wife and all and it's not really in my nature to go around scaring the people close to me."

"So that Effie impersonation just now was supposed to be what, exactly?"

"… Brutal comedy?" I suggest in lack of a better answer.

"Anyway, this whole scaring thing…" He hiccups again. "Was your idea."

I have no suitable response so I shrug and give him a crooked smile before I continue to stare at my unfinished essay. I'm beginning to realize that I'm not going to be able to write the rest of it right now. The sound of Peeta's hiccups don't help either. Strangely though what I'm feeling right now is neither irritation nor frustration. I'm feeling relief, and just a tiny bit happy. Everything seems ordinary between the two of us, with no lingering awkwardness after last week's Harvest Festival talk. Peeta hasn't brought it up and I have no intention of breathing a syllable about it and it's as if the whole conversation never took place. I wouldn't have blamed him if he was irritated about the Mallory Grey thing still but he doesn't seem like the type to sulk for very long. I, on the other hand, am not the forgiving type. I can't help but think that Peeta sometimes reminds me of Prim. Perhaps that's why I enjoy his company as much as I do.

After a while he stops hiccupping and eventually we reach the half-hour mark and set aside our separate essays to work on something else. Namely more calculations. I hate that part, but right now I probably hate essay writing more so I voice no complaints. What we have to calculate right now pertains to income. With me fictionally being very pregnant, giving birth and then nursing a baby our income has been reduced to what Peeta brings home from his job at his parents' bakery. In the back of my mind I've been thinking that we've been secretly living off of the game I bring back from the woods and even though I don't mention anything about it to Peeta I'm a little perturbed that our fictional selves will no longer have that addition to our food supply now that I'm too reproductive to hunt. Peeta groans and rubs his forehead with two fingers as he looks at the new income side of our budget.

"I sure hope you like stale bread, darling," he says in a half-hearted parody of a Capitol accent. "Because I'll be sneaking home a lot of that to help keep us and baby… Cookie Crisp Pastry Baguette Whatever Katniss Peeta Junior nourished."

"Can we call the baby Kiddo for short?" I try to joke but it comes across just as lacklustre as it feels. I sigh heavily. "We do need to pick a name… though we won't know the baby's gender until we get to the part where the thing is actually born."

"Hey!" says Peeta in a mock-stern tone. "That's our imaginary child you're speaking of. You could at least have the decency to call the baby _it_."

I pull the corner of my mouth upward, mostly for show since I don't really feel like comedy right now even though I'm partaking in it as much as Peeta is. I draw a deep breath through my nose and let it out in a groan.

"Do you think our teachers are aware that this whole exercise might actually scare us all off from ever having kids?" I say. "Who wants to live off an income that's been cut in half at the same time as expenses increase?"

"Maybe that stuff just doesn't enter your mind when you're in love and married and want babies," Peeta suggests, though he definitely doesn't sound enthusiastic.

"To make matters worse your income is probably all we'll have to get by on for the rest of the scenario." I set my pencil down and scratch my neck. Peeta, whose eyes are focused on some random spot on the table, makes a face like he's considering what I just said. He no doubt understands exactly what I'm speaking of but the silence stretches on so I spell it out anyway. "By the time the first kid is old enough to be baby-sat during the day and I can go out and earn money again they'll probably make me pregnant again. And then again, and again, and again, until we can't make any form of budget hold up anymore because having six or seven children is real expensive, at which point they'll give us just two more babies so that we can _problem solve_ some more."

I'm really sullen at this point but to my surprise Peeta starts to giggle, which soon turns into real laughter. He tries to keep it subdued but he gives me a look that tells me he's really amused at this point and I scowl at him and lean back in my chair, crossing my arms and giving him a challenging look.

"I'm sorry," he says, the laughter subsiding a little. "I was just thinking that you could have painted me _that_ picture when I had the hiccups."

"It's not so much scary as it is sad."

"It's also a little funny. No offense but even for District 12 that picture is bleak."

"Yeah I know," I sigh. "I guess I just… I'm bothered by the futility of it all."

"Aren't we all."

It sounds so self-evident when he says it. Like the simplest truth. I look at him for a minute and he looks back at me, both of us seemingly pondering the reality of what we just said. And as if that was all that needed to be said we then lean over our old budget and begin to draw up a new one using Peeta's income, our previous expenses and all expenses we can expect when a baby comes into a family.

* * *

Thursday morning I wake up from a nightmare, screaming at my father to run. Of course this wakes Prim up and no matter how many times this happens it scares her just as much every time. The shock of it makes her break out into sobs and I hold her close to me and whisper reassuring words into her blonde hair, all the while feeling my heart pound hard in my chest and beads of sweat cooling on my forehead. I feel a strange mixture of anxiety from my nightmare, guilt for scaring my sister and relief to see traces of the young and innocent Primrose. It's nice, in a way, to be reminded that she still is a child. That I haven't lost her yet. Even if I would rather have been reminded any other way than these dreams of my father, that won't ever seem to go away.

My nightmare woke me up just twenty minutes before the alarm clock is set to ring. That's a positive. It means I got to sleep through most of the night. The worst nightmares are the ones that hit early in the night, stealing all the remaining hours of sleep I could have gotten. I very rarely fall back asleep after dreaming about my father's death. I can't seem to relax, feeling on edge, like I might have to run for my life too.

By the time the alarm rings Prim has calmed down, sheepishly apologizing for reacting the way she did. I smile softly at her and stroke her cheek as I assure her that she has nothing to apologize for – that I'm, in fact, the one who should be apologizing. She smiles back at me and I feel somewhat okay when we throw the comforter aside and get out of bed, both of us shivering in the cold morning air. We both find out clothes very quickly and put them on, speaking in soft, hushed tones as we prepare for the day.

Snow is falling from the sky as we walk towards school and a chilly wind blows but thankfully it's mostly at our backs. Prim's scare from earlier this morning seems to have evaporated entirely and she's in good spirits, talking about the upcoming festival and commenting on the decorations our neighbours have put up on their doors. I smile slightly as I listen, letting her do most of the talking. Halfway to school we stop at an intersection, waiting for a peacekeeper to drive past in his car. While we stand there waiting a thought occurs to me and I almost want to hurry up and get to school so I can sit down at my desk and write it down before it leaves my mind. This is something I could put in my essay as something I look forward to about parenting! Seeing my children's excitement about the Harvest Festival. It's small, but it's something, and perhaps I can build on it. It surprises me that I feel this eager to write this down but I take it as a good sign.

Our first class this morning is geography – a ridiculous class since it's only about District 12, and occasionally the Capitol. I know the district pretty well so while the teacher talks I write notes for my essay, knowing I can get away with it because Miss Bradley will think I'm taking notes on her lecture. I spend more than half the class doing this and when I put the pencil down I've managed to come up with a few other things I could imagine looking forward to if I ever had a child. I smile slightly, feeling pleased with myself. The day may have begun in a bad way but it seems to be picking up.

* * *

Later that afternoon I don't feel quite as cheerful. The sky has turned dark, the wind picking up and more snow falling down, and I can just imagine how cold the walk home is going to be. I don't feel as enthused about getting home to finish writing my essay. All I want to do when I get home is spend some time with Prim or possibly settle on the couch and watch something on the television. Though with the Victory Tour coming up there isn't much of value to watch, unless you really enjoy watching Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith harp on about this summer's Hunger Games and what we can expect from the tour.

While the teacher drones on about the energy value of coal, as if the economic benefit of the mining industry is ever going to be relevant to any of us, I find my mind wandering. My eyes trail over the old sun-bleached posters that decorate the walls of the room, most of them having been there when my grandparents went to school. Leisurely I glance at my classmates, noting which ones appear to actually be paying attention and which ones are whispering amongst each other and which ones are doodling in their books or notepads. Peeta seems to be doing the latter at first glance, leaning over his books, his broad shoulders a touch slumped. Then I notice him turning a page. He's not doodling then. Probably getting an early start on homework. I know he has trouble finding time for it sometimes, with having to help out at the bakery and having wrestling practice. There was a time when I would have been surprised to learn that merchant kids scramble to find the time for school work, at least for other reasons than playing the day away. There are a lot of things I used to believe about merchant kids that I've come to realize weren't necessarily true.

Since I'm sitting in my preferred spot far back and by the window and Peeta is in his usual part of the classroom further to the front along the other wall I only see his back and part of his profile. When he turns his face to the left I can make out his face better and I see that he is frowning. I suspect the back of his pencil will soon start drumming against his bottom lip or teeth and a few seconds later I am proven right. It makes the corners of my mouth turn upward a little bit.

Madge elbows me in the side, bringing me back to the present.

"Look alive. Mr. Jones is throwing questions around," she hisses.

I nod and mouth a thanks, blushing slightly from having been caught letting my mind wander like that.

"Peeta?" says Mr. Jones, his grey eyes narrowing as they focus on the boy I was just watching. I find myself just a little bit anxious that Peeta might not know the answer, or have even heard the question, with his mind focused elsewhere.

"Supercritical steam cycle turbines using anthracite fuel can achieve thermal efficiencies at around 67%, which is considerably more than the roughly 40% of the old days yet unfortunately less than the 72% achieved by the more advanced technologies in use before the Dark Days," says Peeta, every word falling out of his mouth with surprising ease. I can't help but stare at him for a few seconds, impressed by his ability to answer the question correctly despite not seeming to have paid any attention at all. I hear a couple of boys sitting close to me snigger and mutter something about overachievers who couldn't simply state the percentage that was the shortest answer to the question. I resist the temptation to turn my head and scowl at them.

"Very well," nods Mr. Jones. He moves on to the next question and the next student. Peeta returns his focus to the book in front of him. For my part I hold back a sigh and silently pray that the teacher won't direct a question my way.

I luck out, and ten minutes later the class is over and I can head home. While I stand and begin to stuff my books into my backpack I hear those same boys snigger to one another about Peeta and the other students who got the answers right. One of the two boys got a question just before end of class and he couldn't answer it, so presumably he's just being petty. All the same I find it asinine.

"I can't stand those overachievers," mutters the boy who couldn't answer the question correctly.

"I know," scoffs the other one. "Teacher's pets. Losers."

"Especially those self-important kids who can't just say a short answer, they have to elaborate so that they sound so very smart."

I'm not sure where it comes from, but I hear myself speaking back to them.

"Maybe you should spend less time being jealous that others do well in school and more time actually learning something." Both of them turn their eyes straight to me when I speak, both looking completely dumbfounded. I don't usually speak up in class and certainly not to interrupt a private conversation. I just can't stomach their pettiness today.

"What the hell is it to you, Everdeen?" sneers the boy who got the question wrong.

"Nothing, really, I suppose," I answer, putting my backpack on. "I just find it interesting that when other students, some of whom are from town and won't be going into the mines, can explain a lot more about the coal industry than the pair of you, you choose to find _them_ stupid when in actuality you are the stupid ones. You're the ones who will have a need for this knowledge someday and you don't seem to care too much."

The two boys glare at me and under normal circumstances I would probably have felt uncomfortable. It's obvious that they find me annoying and probably a bit sanctimonious but their lack of approval is of no concern to me. One of them mutters something only half-intelligible that seems to suggest I should mind my own business and that I'm a lot less nice than I seem to be. I snort, roll my eyes and follow Madge out the classroom. We walk side by side in silence until we're halfway to our lockers. Then she gives me a look and leans in closer so she can talk to me without raising her voice to be heard over the general commotion.

"That was new," she comments. "I haven't seen you do anything like that before."

"I know," I say with a scowl. "I don't know what I was thinking. It's not like anything I say is going to make a difference."

"They were rude to talk down those who got the questions right," says Madge carefully. "But they weren't _that_ mean. Probably just nervous and frazzled because they couldn't answer correctly themselves."

My scowl deepens as I mull that theory over. We reach our lockers and I open mine, reaching for my outerwear.

"Do you think I was out of line?" I ask Madge. "I had a bad nightmare this morning. I've been a little off all day."

"No, you were fine," she answers softly. She lifts out the books she won't need for tomorrow and places them in a neat stack on the top shelf of her locker. "I was just surprised. You don't usually do things like that."

"I just thought they were wrong, that's all," I say. "I couldn't have answered all of those questions but I'm impressed by those who can." I almost add that those who gave more extensive answers impressed me in particular but I choose to keep that bit for myself.

Madge smiles softly and gives me a wink.

"I actually think it suits you to speak up like that."

"Don't get used to it," I say, closing my locker with a bit of a shove to the door. "It obviously doesn't pay off anyway."

She wraps a soft light blue scarf around her neck and smiles.

"I have to go. See you tomorrow, Katniss."

I nod and give her a small wave with my hand. I glance out the nearest window and cringe inwardly, dreading having to go out into the cold afternoon. Prim is spending time with one of her friends today and I know our mother has a few house calls planned before dinner so all I have to look forward to when I come home is an empty house. Then again I suppose that gives me the perfect ambiance to finish my essay. I wrap my jacket closer around my body and head for the exit.

* * *

Friday comes and with it the Harvest Festival. It really does seem like all of District 12 is out and about. This year I have an unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach and I know the reason why. Even though we're on as good terms as ever my mind keeps going back to the question Peeta asked me and how I handled it. I can't help myself. My eyes try to find him in the crowd. Is it such an oddity? After all he asked me to go here with him, possibly as his date for the evening, and I turned him down. It's only natural that I should want to assure myself that he's having a good time, that I didn't ruin the festival for him. We're friends now, I guess, and as a friend I want him to be able to enjoy himself when the rare opportunity presents. So every couple of minutes I look around and see if I can spot him.

The Harvest Feast is in full swing, as is to be expected at this time of day. The events usually start around noon and carry on until late evening and by now it's late afternoon. Prim and I arrived about an hour ago and Gale met up with us shortly thereafter. His brothers and sister are around here somewhere too, supervised by our mothers. Prim wanted to stay with Gale and me and we were happy to let her, at least until evening. During the day the Harvest Festival is more of a family gathering but towards the evening young couples seek each other out and friends gather to have fun with people their own age. I know Gale wants for us to be alone in the crowd later but it's still daylight and Prim's presence doesn't interfere with anything.

The whole town square seems to have come to life and as always I'm surprised to see how cheerful people are. Some of it is faked, I know that much, but there is genuine gaiety as well. This is, after all, the one big occasion every year that doesn't threaten to rip your child away from you or forces you to celebrate the latest Hunger Games victor and relive the deaths of the district's own tributes. While the food they offer may be meagre and the festivities are hampered by the element of force and the careful oversight of the peacekeepers it's still an occasion to come out and meet people, get some food for free without losing dignity and face, and even dance a little. The fact that it happens during early winter doesn't hinder people's excitement much either. Thankfully there is no thin layer of ice underneath the snow that might cause people to fall and break their leg.

Prim eventually runs into some friends of hers and goes off with them, leaving Gale and I mostly to ourselves. We walk around the area, stopping by several of the small booths that have been set up by tradesmen and people from the Hob. It's tradition to buy your loved ones a gift during the Harvest Feast but Gale and I have already agreed not to adhere to that tradition. Not this year. We're still a mere couple of weeks into this relationship thing. We settle for studying the various things at sale, making a few appreciative comments to the craftsmen every now and then. Mostly we just enjoy the surroundings, though my mind keeps being distracted.

It takes hours for me to notice him and when I do he's not alone. He's dressed in the same clothes he wore to our last Reaping, his curly hair is unkempt but oddly fitting on him even for the occasion, and the smile on his face seems genuine and relaxed. I feel my shoulders slump a bit with relief, glad to know he is having a good time. I've been feeling a little bad about turning him down but clearly I don't need to.

Then a girl comes into view. One of our classmates, one of his fellow merchants, but her name escapes me and for the life of me I can't think of it even though I spend a good five minutes or so trying. She looks bright and happy in that way only merchant people can and in her hair is that headband that was on our table a while back. She says something and holds something up for him to eat. He takes the bite and she laughs and then he puts a hand on her arm and she takes his hand in hers. She moves backward in a dancing motion and he follows, off to dance then presumably.

I can't explain why but the sight burns inside of me, filling me with… disappointment. I guess I liked the fact that he asked me to come here with him, saw it as a sign that he enjoys my company more than as solely a studious project partner, but if I'm that replaceable then it never mattered to begin with. Perhaps this girl is going to be the fourth girlfriend he has. Perhaps she already is. Perhaps the last. It has to end somewhere, right? Some girl has to be the one he marries. Why not this one?

"Catnip?" Gale's voice barely manages to catch my attention but the arm he drapes over my shoulders is difficult to ignore. "Hello? You seem a million miles away."

"I'm just hungry," I say, the excuse falling easily from my lips. It has the advantage of being true, which helps.

"Food is not going to come from over there," chuckles Gale, nodding in the direction I'm looking. I wonder if he saw Peeta there a minute ago. I wonder if he would guess that's why I was looking that way.

"Maybe not but the people over there seem in quite good spirits which suggests they know when food will arrive. Also I just saw someone eat something."

"Probably something they brought with them."

That doesn't seem likely. Why would that girl bring along edible things to this feast where Panem provides the food for us? Even if she did, why would she give that food to Peeta and not eat it herself? I'm much more inclined to believe that she bought it in one of the booths. That's what I would do if I had enough money for it – stop at every booth selling something edible and have a taste of as much as possible.

"I bet they're keeping the food away for as long as they can because they know that's the only reason anyone's here," I say grumpily, wrapping my arms around myself. I hate how childish I just sounded. There's not even a small part of me that believes the statement I just made.

"You okay, Catnip?" asks Gale, looking puzzled by my sour mood.

"Yes," I say, managing half a smile. Poor Gale, I didn't mean to bring his spirits down. He should enjoy himself today. He works so hard in the mines and has so few chances of having fun and feeling young. "Just hungry, is all."

"I know plenty of things we could do to pass the time while we wait."

His tone is suggestive but I can't bring myself to play along. We're not officially a couple yet so I'm guessing he's jesting but all the same I don't feel like participating. I announce that I'm thirsty as well as hungry and Gale dutifully takes me to get something to drink. They have a large keg of fresh lemonade, a luxury we haven't had for at least three years, and Gale gets me a large scoop of the delicious, cold beverage and then tries to encourage me to drink his scoop as well. He seems to have forgotten lately that I don't appreciate charity and I don't see it as his boyfriend duty to be chivalrous in that manner. I do, however, manage not to scowl at him and instead simply decline the offer. Three times.

Seemingly despite my own wishes my eyes keep catching Peeta and the girl he's with for the next hour or so. I see them smiling and talking and laughing together, dancing together, sometimes leaning their heads close to each other to share words they don't seem to want anyone else to hear. Two blonde heads together, a matching set. It makes me wonder why he asked me to pick him for a project partner when the woman he will marry is going to be a merchant like himself. Why not partner up with someone who will provide him with scenarios he is likely to actually face? In fact, why didn't he choose to partner up with this girl?

Gale gives my hand a light tug, bringing my attention back to him. I force a small smile and follow him to where our families are waiting, trying my best to at least momentarily forget about the boy with the bread and the girl he's here with instead of me.

* * *

Evening comes and with it the sky lights up with stars and a bright shining moon, blocked only sparsely by the few, thin clouds that go sailing by. I tilt my head upward to observe the firmament above, drinking in the sight of the tiny-looking bright dots in the middle of all that blackness and the larger object that is the moon. I'm glad the sky isn't overcast. I like the view and it feels like it adds to the evening.

Gale and I sit beside each other on the back of a half-empty wagon. We haven't spoken in a while, both of us preoccupied with watching the festivities unfold. Dancing has begun again, this time to different music. The younger children have been sent to bed, their parents excused from the festivities, leaving mostly those of us in-between the ages of early bedtimes and having had children of our own. Several young pairs are dancing together in the town square, an area lit not only by the moon and stars but by the old lanterns that are hung up every year and always look like they're on their very last year before they fall apart completely. I've never been much for dancing at the Harvest Festivals. I don't like the attention. Even though I don't expect anyone to be following me with their eyes the whole time it's a small square and some are bound to notice me and while my dancing prowess holds up fine I become nervous when I think people might be looking. Most of the dancing pairs are made up of merchants, the more carefree among us, but a handful of teenagers from the Seam are out there as well, as are a couple of older folks from our part of town. I'm glad. I just wish there were more couples formed of one townie and one Seam. That we could come together more. When I was a child my parents were the only ones that weren't matched with someone from their own part of the district. Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been if my father had been accepted by my mother's family and friends.

My eyes go to my boyfriend, sitting beside me on the cart. He's watching the dancing couples with a smile on his face. It makes me glad to see him enjoying himself. So much of his life is wasted down in those dark, cold mines and I want him to have as much fun as he possibly can, when he can. It's only a fragment of what he deserves. So in a spur of the moment decision I jump down from the cart and hold out my hand to him.

"May I have this dance, Mr. Hawthorne?"

For a second he looks at me with wide questioning eyes but then a grin spreads across his face and his eyes light up. He hops down and takes my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. Pulling me closer to kiss the top of my head he chuckles slightly and begins to move in the direction of the square.

"It would be my honour to dance with you this evening, Miss Everdeen," he says. When we reach the square and find an open spot he gives me a twirl and takes both of my hands, leading me into one of the traditional District 12 dances. "I must say you are taking me by surprise. I thought dancing was absent from your list of things you would be willing to do in public."

"Every now and then exceptions need to be made," I say, a warm tone in my voice. I'm not smiling, dancing at the Harvest Festival makes me feel a little too out of my element for that, but if I concentrate on him I'm sure I will like it just fine.

Our dance is awkward, uncoordinated. I've danced this dance a handful of times throughout the years but I've never taken an interest in it and therefore never gotten good at it. There are other dances I do better with but they don't suit the music currently playing. Gale fares a bit better but with me for a partner he can't quite save it. Not that it matters. He seems in high spirits anyway and that was the whole point.

I take a few steps in the dance that put me to Gale's right, giving me a clear view over his shoulder, and for the first time in a while my eyes fall on Peeta and his female companion. They are dancing as well, doing a better job than Gale and I though by no means perfecting the moves. Though that might be because they are so preoccupied talking and laughing that they barely seem focused on what they are doing with their legs. I turn my face away, finding I don't want to see more of it.

The song comes to an end and I join with Gale and the others around me in applauding the musicians before they start up the next song. Gale puts an arm around my waist to lead me back to where we were sitting but I suggest we go get something to drink first. The lemonade is long gone by now but there is fresh, cold water to be had. He is happy to oblige and we move through the crowd, trying not to get in the way of the dancing couples. It takes several minutes to reach the water barrel and when we get there we have to wait in line. I don't mind. The air temperature has dropped but the number of people around keeps us from getting cold. I stand beside Gale, awaiting our turn, wrapping my arms around myself. I'm starting to feel a bit tired. Maybe I should suggest to Gale that we head home soon.

Our turn at the barrel comes and I grab the metallic dipper and scoop up the cold liquid, drinking in slow sips to avoid a brain freeze. I feel sated while there's still a bit left in the dipper so I hand it over to Gale who finishes it promptly and gets another scoop for himself. While I wait for him I look around, watching the dwindling crowd around me. The young people will still be out for a while yet but most District 12 citizens above the age of twenty-five or so have head home by now or are beginning to make their way out of here. A few of the peacekeepers, the younger ones mostly, are becoming a bit lax, not slacking on the job but forgoing the strict formation they've been standing in and getting more comfortable, a few even exchanging words with people they know in the crowds. I spot Darius and give him a nod and he responds with a smile and a wave. I wonder if they would like to partake in the festivities or if this all pales in comparison to the fiestas they experienced in their youths in District 2 or, for some of them, the Capitol.

Gale's hand on my back tells me he's done drinking and we move away to make room for the next in line. Gale wants to go back to the cart we were sitting on and I nod, following him wordlessly, wrapping my jacket closer around myself. The chill is starting to creep in and the thinning crowd isn't doing enough anymore to keep me warm.

"I never seem to be able to make up my mind about all this," says Gale as we walk. "The Harvest Festival… Do I enjoy it or do I think it's a mere spectacle designed to-"

Thankfully I don't have to hear the end of that thought because a blonde haired girl bumps into him, cutting him off and nearly setting him off balance. Normally Gale wouldn't lose his footing that easily but he's distracted and he's had some alcohol to drink. He automatically reaches out a hand to steady the girl and I recognize her as being in the class below mine. I can't seem to remember her name but if I'm not mistaken her father is a carpenter and she lives near the bakery.

"Whoa, steady on," says Gale, helping the girl find her footing. She's been drinking more white liquor than is good for her, that much is plain to see, and she giggles like a little girl and pushes a strand of blonde hair from her face.

"Thank you," she says, her words slurring slightly. "I was gonna go…" She pauses, scowls and looks around. "Where was I going?"

I can barely hold in a sigh, crossing my arms and scowling. This is embarrassing. Gale chuckles softly and keeps his hand on her to steady her as she sways, looking around herself to figure out where she's going and no doubt also where she is and how she got here. He calmly asks her a few questions about where her friends and family are but she doesn't seem to know the answer to that either. How much has she had to drink?

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, another blond shows up.

"Jess? Jess? Are you okay?"

Peeta has a concerned scowl on his face and puts arm around the girl's waist to steady her. Jessamyn Adams, that's her name. Judging by the way Peeta is talking to her, not to mention putting his arm around her, I can assume he knows her better than I do. She turns her face to him and after a second recognizes him, grinning widely. She tries to say something but it comes out in an unintelligible round of slurry nonsense. Gale takes his hand off her and she stumbles to Peeta instead, clinging to him while she tries – again – to gain her balance. Peeta looks up and meets my eyes, surprise registering for a second. Then he flashes me a smile and a nod before leading Jessamyn away, asking her where her brother and sister are and drops a few other names I recognize along the way. Gale's arm finds its way around my waist as we watch them move to a corner that's far less crowded.

"Well that was… interesting," says Gale. "Man, do I hope Posy or my brothers never get themselves that smashed."

"What?" I say, barely paying attention.

"She's drunk, Katniss," chuckles Gale, misunderstanding me. "Well, at least someone she knows seems to be taking care of her for the time being."

With that he begins to walk again, taking me with him. I keep my eyes on Peeta and Jessamyn for as long as I can, watching as he holds back her long, blonde hair while she throws up. I wrinkle my nose, disgusted by the sight. I'll take Prim's odd sudden fondness for boys any day over the odd sudden fondness for alcohol some teenagers develop.

Sitting side-by-side with Gale on the back of the wagon I begin to feel I just want to go home already. I'm beginning to freeze and even though Gale quickly notices and lends me his jacket that doesn't make me feel much happier to be here. I do feel a bit more at ease when he puts his arm around me and pulls me closer, giving me some of his body heat as well as soothing my strangely unruly emotions. I lean my head against his shoulder and take a deep breath. He smells of the cheap soap we use in the Seam and of leather and sweat. Familiar smells, comforting smells.

After about ten minutes my eye catches something in the periphery and I lift my head a little to get a better look. It's Peeta, holding Jessamyn bridal style while her head slumps against his chest. She appears to be awake, her mouth seemingly moving and her hand waving slightly back and forth, but clearly she's not feeling very well. Peeta is standing next to his brother Ryean and the two have a conversation for a few minutes before Peeta sets Jessamyn down and the brothers each take one of her arms and wrap it over their shoulders. Together they get her moving somewhat on her own, though it's clear that if one of them lets go she'll slump down on the ground.

"Something the matter?" asks Gale.

"No…" I say absent-mindedly, my eyes still on the two boys helping the overly drunken girl home. "No, just… Getting cold. And tired." I turn my eyes to Gale. "I think I'd like to head home now."

"Sure," he smiles, hopping down from the cart in such an eager fashion that I wonder if he was waiting for me to say this. I allow him to take my hand to help steady me as I climb down on the ground as well. "We could take… the scenic route home."

"What scenic route?" I scoff.

"Whichever route takes the longest and gives us some time alone," chuckles Gale, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me closer as we walk around the area where people are dancing.

"Gale, I think the touching is getting to be a bit much," I mumble, moving away from him. "We're out in public. I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea."

"The wrong idea being that we're in love?"

Actually, yes, that might be exactly it. Biting my bottom lip I avert my eyes for a second, drawing a deep breath to gather some composure.

"My family still doesn't know we're together. I don't want the whole rest of the district to find out before they do."

"Nobody cares, Catnip," says Gale in a carefree tone.

" _I_ care." He stops walking for a second, his eyes peering into mine. For a moment I wonder if we're about to have another argument. He's had a bit to drink and I know that deep down he's not a big fan of the Harvest Festival. He might be in a confrontational mood. "Look, Gale… Until my mother and my sister knows, which we agreed would be a few weeks from now, I don't think we should go about showing… public displays of affection. It's not fair to my mother and Prim, is it?"

He rolls his eyes, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while sticking his hands in his back pockets.

"Fine, Catnip. Fine. You win. As usual. But if you ask me this is just one more reason why your mother and sister _ought_ to know about us. If you're not ashamed to be seen with me then what's the problem?" I'm almost certain the alcohol influences what he says next. "And I'll have you know there are plenty of women here who wouldn't be ashamed to be seen with me."

"I've been seen with you since I was twelve," I counter.

"Oh, come on," he scoffs. "You know what I mean."

"And you know what _I_ mean."

He's quiet for a while, drawing his lips into his mouth and letting them out again. We stand close to one another in the crowd and the faint smell of alcohol is on his breath. Again I wonder if this has any effect on our conversation. I'm glad Gale's not the kind who likes to drink more than once or twice a year.

"Fine," he concedes. "No more 'inappropriate' touching while we're here." He says the word "inappropriate" in a very mocking fashion that irritates me to no end. "But I'm still suggesting we take a secluded road home and find some time to ourselves."

"Feel the mood, Gale," I say, nearly snorting the words at him. "I'm not in the mood. I just want to get home." I begin to walk through the crowds and he follows at my heel.

"Can I just ask one thing?" he says in a voice slightly raised to be heard above the surrounding crowd.

"Sure, fire away," I sigh, turning my face so he can hear my response.

"It doesn't bother you at all that my family knows but yours doesn't? You don't think Prim and your mother will be a bit upset when they hear about the two of us and then learn that my mother and siblings have been in the know all along?"

"They won't care," I answer without hesitation. Truth is I haven't given any particular thought to it and I'm not so sure.

"If you say so…"

We make our way to the other end of the festival area. Peacekeepers actually put up boarders for what constitutes Harvest Festival territory in order to make sure everyone attends. If you want to leave you have to do so through the main entrance point. Under normal circumstances it's a three minute walk from where we are right now but with all these people about and the additional booths put up it will take us longer than that. During the walk my mind gets working with what Gale just said about my family knowing. I'm prepared to write it off as nothing that will cause a problem. My mother and sister will be happy if I'm happy, the rest won't matter in the long run. But there is one thing he touched upon that he doesn't know is a lie. I haven't actually thought about it myself until right now.

His family aren't the only ones in the know.

There's someone else. One more person who knows Gale Hawthorne and I are dating. Peeta. I told him. Flat out told him, with no hesitation and no second thoughts. Granted he apparently thought we might be dating when we began working together so I can probably assume that if any of his friends at school have given my love life the tiniest shred of thought they might already be assuming the same thing. But it's not the same as me confirming it outright. The oddest thing though, is that I don't feel any worry about this. Even though I didn't tell Peeta to keep his mouth shut I don't think he will blab. Not just because there's really nobody he could mention it to who would give a damn but because it's not his style. There are many gossips among his friends, both male and female, but Peeta doesn't normally join in. I've never heard him utter a word about who might be dating whom. He leaves people's business their business. I respect him for that.

Casting another glance at Gale over my shoulder I decide not to tell him about this. He doesn't need to know that aside from his family there's a blond merchant boy who knows about us dating. If he knew he would no doubt insist that we tell my mother and sister immediately, and probably start walking hand in hand towards the Hob every Sunday. No. Gale is not to know about it. Not yet anyway.

It will be mine and Peeta's secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost took out the part where Katniss lets her mind wander in class and then gets into a discussion with two of her class-mates (on a related note, she seems to be real bad at remembering her classmates' names in this story). The scene is a little bit silly, I know, but I kept it in the end because it shows the "sticking up for people" side of her, even if it could have been done in a better way.
> 
> I don't think I have much else to say at the moment, except please leave a comment and tell me what you think of the chapter! =)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished another chapter! Midsummer equals extra time off from work equals getting more things done ;)
> 
> Just a quick reminder to avoid confusion, temperatures are in centigrade because that's what I know.

I hide a yawn behind my hand and then pull my old cardigan closer around myself while I wait for Prim to finish milking Lady. It's early morning and the coldest day so far this winter. I can see my sister's breaths from where I'm standing by the window, watching her from indoors yet still not feeling warm and comfy. Our house was never built to withstand the coldest of winters. It was just built to stand. On days like these the indoor temperature drops to somewhere around 17 or 18 degrees.

The Harvest Festival is over and the Victory Tour has come and gone. We get a few days off from school while the tour is ongoing, ostensibly so we can all participate in the celebrations and enjoy life to the fullest. It most certainly is not so that we can watch with bated breaths how the broadcasts assures us of how glorious the Hunger Games are and what an amazing country Panem truly is. I don't mind the Victory Tour all that much, compared to the actual Games it's relatively harmless, but it's still a reminder of what is to come in six months' time and how we are never free, never safe.

Prim finishes milking the goat and comes back inside, shivering as she hands me the old ceramic pot. While she hurries off to shed her preferred wool sweater in favour of something nicer and more school appropriate I put the lid on the pot and place it in the refrigerator. Lady doesn't give much milk anymore. She rarely does during winter. What she does give we will have to drink. No point in making cheese out of it. I need to see to it that she gets impregnated again soon, so we will have milk for another season.

"Okay, I'm ready!" says Prim as she comes rushing out of her room, still shivering from the cold outside. She grabs the new gloves I got for her a few weeks back and wraps her scarf around her neck. I wish she had a warmer jacket to put on but there simply isn't money for that.

"Okay, then," I say. "Let's go."

She sticks her hand in mine as we walk out the door and make our way towards school. We walk fast, eager to get there as quickly as possible. I don't have a hat and my ears burn from the cold after just a few minutes. Going out hunting is bound to be a miserable experience if this temperature keeps up but I can't let something like that hinder me. We need that protein and fat more than ever when the weather gets this bad.

We walk together in silence. The cold doesn't invite for conversation. When we reach school Prim gives my hand a squeeze and hurries off towards her locker. I'm not nearly as swift as she is, taking my time walking to my own locker, opening it and putting my outerwear away with little enthusiasm. I can't say that I've missed being here five days a week. My head hurts a little and the unnecessary yet unavoidable loudness of my fellow students is not really what I need right now. Stifling another yawn I stop by the water fountain before I head off to class, spending a good minute or two trying to get enough water out of it to quench my thirst.

It's Wednesday and I'm glad that school is starting back up today of all the week days. Wednesdays mean history, literature and biology, three of the subjects I like the best. It also has none of my least favourite classes, a happy coincidence this year. I spend the first half of the day sitting by myself since Madge is home with the flu. It gets a little bit lonely at lunchtime and I have to admit to myself that sitting by myself makes me feel just a little bit vulnerable nowadays. I never used to care much but I've gotten used to Madge's company and without it I feel a bit isolated. Though not so isolated that I go and find Prim to join her for lunch. She's got her own friends to sit with and I'd probably feel very much out of place joining their crowd.

I startle as a brown paper bag drops down on the table across from where I'm sitting, followed by a pair of books and then a backpack onto an empty chair. The paper bag is the kind they use at the bakery, the books look old and worn and the backpack is very familiar. I lift my head from my meagre lunch and stare at the owner of the aforementioned objects with incredulity and a touch of dismay. I've still got a headache and I was hoping for some calm and quiet.

"Mind if I sit with you?" asks Peeta, already taking a seat opposite me, seemingly very sure of my answer. "I really, _really_ need to study for the chemistry test tomorrow and it's impossible to concentrate if I sit at my normal lunch table."

I scowl, slowly turning my head to glance over at the table where he usually sits. A group of six or seven merchant kids are gathered, talking and laughing amongst themselves. There are a few empty chairs at their table and another member of their clique comes and has a seat. I turn back to look at Peeta who has opened one of the textbooks and is digging inside the paper bag with one hand. He's not going to wait for my answer, is he?

"Why are you sitting here?" I question.

"You don't mind, do you?" His hand find whatever he was looking for in the bag and I'm momentarily distracted, wondering if he'll be lifting out a delicious sandwich filled with all kinds of goodies. He does produce a sandwich from the bag but it's got only a slice of cheese and what looks like a rather stiff, not to mention thin, slice of ham. Leagues better than what I send with Prim most days but still not what I had expected from the baker's youngest child. "I'm not going to bother you, I swear. You won't even know that I'm here." He takes a bite from the sandwich and the bread seems decidedly stale. It makes me feel just a little bit disappointed.

" _Why_ are you sitting here?" I insist.

"Chemistry test," he says as soon as he's swallowed his bite, as if those two words explain everything. Finally my scowl seems to register with him and he makes a face. "The thing is, I'm really bad at chemistry. Terrible. I can't seem to make sense of it, never have, but I have to do well on tomorrow's test. In order to do well I need to study every chance I get." He's taking fast, like he's either stressed or nervous. "I spent as much time as I could studying during our days off but you know how the peacekeepers get during the Victory Tour, and the stop here in Twelve is big business for us, and our parents needed us in the bakery. Not to say I like the Victory Tour but it does help put food on the table from now until the end of winter so I have only to be grateful. And still I've been stressing out over chemistry, not bake orders."

"Why do you care how well you do in chemistry?" I question. "When does a baker need to know the periodic table? That stuff is useful for miners, not merchants."

"You know better than that," he says dryly, taking another bite from his sandwich.

"At least not the majority of merchants," I correct myself.

"Tell that to my grades."

"So? A bad grade in chemistry won't be the end of your world."

"Tell that to my mother."

That shuts me up. I take another bite from my own very measly lunch and study him silently. He takes little notice. His eyes are glued to the textbook and he doesn't even look up at his sandwich, eating it almost mechanically. Once it's all gone he reaches inside the bag again and produces a small apple and a bottle of water. He gets halfway through the apple before sighing and finally taking his eyes off the text in order to turn his attention to the notepad which I notice has a skeletal model of a water molecule scribbled on it. He flips through a few pages and sets his apple aside, grabbing his pencil instead.

"Learning much?" I ask, not sure why.

He looks up, a somewhat weary expression on his face.

"I wouldn't say that."

"What's so hard about chemistry anyway?" I ask, taking care not to sound unkind or belittling. I wouldn't call it my best subject, and certainly not my favourite, but I've never found it the most difficult class. "It's bonds and compounds and the like. How things are drawn to one another and how they interact."

"I just don't get it, I suppose," he sighs. "It doesn't make any sense to me. I don't know why. Electrons and protons just appear out of nowhere when needed, just to make one example, and that makes no sense to me whatsoever. And without intuitively understanding it I have to pound it all into my head and know it by heart." He shakes his head and runs a hand through his curls as he begins to scribble in his notebook. "It frustrates me."

"So what is it you're writing down?" I ask, crossing my arms on the table and leaning forward to get a better look. I realize I'm disturbing him but I don't care. Maybe I can help. From the looks of it he could use it.

"The chemical formulas that will be on the test. If I had unlimited supply to paper and pencil I think this might give me an actual shot at memorizing it all. I learn a lot better when I'm writing down. I'm… kind of visual, I suppose."

"So then visualise."

He looks up at me, staring at me like I just suggested he put on a musical performance featuring all formulas we'll be tested on.

"What?" he says flatly.

"Don't think of them just as formulas on paper," I shrug. "I don't know… Draw or write something for each chemical formula and memorize that together and then during the test…" I shrug again, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid. I don't have the first idea how this might be useful to him and I have a feeling he regrets sitting with me. He's not getting any peace and quiet to study, only imprudent suggestions from a classmate whose grades are no doubt a lot less impressive than his.

He looks at me for several seconds, making me squirm a little. Then he looks down at his notebook and after a second he scribbles something next to the formula for calcium chloride. A cube.

"What's that?" I ask, despite deciding I'll shut up and let him study in peace.

"An ice-cube. All I can really remember about this is that it can be used to prevent icing." He sighs heavily. "I hate chemistry. Your idea is good, don't get me wrong. I just can't figure out how to apply it."

"I can help you if you want."

He looks at me, his brow furrowing just a touch.

"Katniss I know I'm crashing your lunch here. If you want me gone it's okay to say so. You don't have to spoil your break by helping me prepare for the test."

"I don't mind," I insist. "I help Prim study all the time." I point at another formula. "Here, for instance. Carbon dioxide, it's something we exhale, right? So, I don't know… draw a nose or a… lung." I blush slightly, again feeling stupid, but Peeta nods and draws a cute little nose on his notepad next to the formula.

He glances at the textbook and transcribes the formulas he didn't already have in his notepad. All in all a total of fifteen, all of which I already know and won't need to brush up on before the test tomorrow. They're pretty random but most of them have to do with the mining industry in some way or other. Our schooling tends to be tailored to prepare us for our bleak futures.

"That one is easy," I say, pointing to the last one he adds to the list. "NaCl. Saline." My mother uses saline to clean wounds, though we rarely have enough of it around. She talks sometimes about how she wishes she could give intravenous treatments to the people who come see her and apparently saline is an absolute must in those occasions.

Peeta gives me an amused, crooked smile.

"Yes. Also table salt."

"Huh?"

"NaCl, aka saline, is the same thing as ordinary salt. The cartons of salt we buy for the bakery are labelled NaCl."

Somewhere in the back of my mind this factoid rings awfully familiar but before I can make any further comments one of our classmates, a merchant boy, comes up and lands a serious of drumming pats on Peeta's shoulders. Peeta turns his head to look at his friend, a tall and lanky boy with dark blond hair and deep brown eyes. His name is Stork and his parents own a small sawmill.

"Seriously, Peeta, you need to spend less time on the idiotic project and more time studying your chemistry," he says in a teasing, friendly tone. He gives me a quick look and a nod. "Katniss."

"Stork," I reply, giving him a very small nod in return.

"Actually I _am_ studying for the chemistry test," says Peeta in a resigned tone.

"Your parents will freak if you flunk, you know."

"I am aware," says Peeta dryly. "Thank you for the kind reminder."

"I don't know why you don't just ask for help when you need it," sighs Stork, reaching down to grab Peeta's books. "Come on, get moving. I've aced every chemistry test we've had so far and that makes me your safest bet for a study partner."

Peeta collects the rest of his things and sends me a crooked smile and a thanks before leaving with his friend. I watch him go and try not to feel disappointed that he so easily cast me aside and went ahead with his friend's offer of help instead. With a small sigh I gather up the wrapping from my meagre meal and toss it in a waste bin on my way out. I have ten minutes until my next class and if I hurry I might be able to find a vacant couch in the tiny library and lie down to rest my aching head.

* * *

"I'm so glad you decided to stop by," says Gale as he nuzzles against my neck. His arms are wrapped around me from behind, bringing me warmth in the cold afternoon. It's about an hour past dinner time and we're out on the Hawthornes' back porch getting some air. Which is actually code for wanting a moment to ourselves, which can otherwise only happen in his bedroom and Hazelle does not allow that. I feel Gale's lips press gently at a spot just below my ear. Thankfully it's pitch dark, or I wouldn't have allowed this kind of display of affection. Inside the house is one thing, as his whole family knows about us already, but out here we need to be more careful.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," I tell him. He spent the better part of the past week in bed with a fever, a cough and a runny nose. We only saw each other once during this time since he was afraid of infecting me. It didn't matter that I pointed out to him that my mother and sister bring home all kinds of germs from the people they help. Gale has gotten protective of me in a whole new way.

"You being here makes me feel even better, still," he mumbles against my skin, his hot breath warming a spot halfway between my ear and collarbone. His lips press a kiss against the same spot, warming it further.

"We shouldn't be out here for long," I say. My hands find his upper arms and give them a squeeze. "I don't want you getting sick again right away and the cold air is not good for your cough."

"Now that my fever's gone I spend all day down in the mines again. That's cold enough and the coal dust doesn't help." His face leaves the crook of my neck and his cheek comes to rest against mine. "In comparison this is like a Capitol health resort."

I let out a sound that's halfway between a chortle and a snort, shaking my head slightly. Though he's right. Him being back in that environment so soon worries me.

"Just try and keep from getting worse again," I implore.

He makes a sound of agreement deep in the back of his throat. We stand in silence together, breathing in the ice cold air, watching the stars in the sky. After a few minutes I start to tire of the cold and I turn around in Gale's embrace and place a soft kiss on his closed mouth, telling him it's time to go back inside.

"You shouldn't kiss me," he chastises, not sounding the least bit upset that I did. "You'll get sick, too."

"I'm a brave huntress. I'll take my chances."

He chuckles and that turns into a coughing fit. He pulls away from me and turns around so as to avoid coughing directly on me. I rub his back with my hand and wait until the coughing has subsided. When it does he turns back to me with a small smile on his lips.

"Before we go inside, there's something I want to discuss with you."

"Can't we discuss it in the kitchen, over tea?"

"It's about us." I nod in understanding. His whole family is inside the small house and having a private conversation in there is as good as hopeless.

"Perhaps it can wait?" I suggest, worried that he'll get too cold if we stay outside much longer. "I can come by again tomorrow, we can go for a walk?"

"I have a better idea," he says softly. His hand cups my chin gently and tilts my head so that we're looking into each other's eyes. He's looking at me with warmth and fondness, a kind of look he never used to give me.

"Okay?"

"I think tomorrow I should come over and have dinner with you and your family, and we'll tell them about us."

Immediately I tense up. I begin raking my mind, trying to come up with some reasonable argument as to why we should wait longer. Perhaps the most reasonable one is the very fact that I don't feel comfortable with it yet, and we should get to the bottom of that. I _should_ feel comfortable. This is what was bound to happen all along, wasn't it? Gale and I together, taking the step from young adults out hunting together to grown-ups building a life together. Wasn't that how we all expected it to end up? Why then am I resisting it this way?

"Uhm…" I begin, stalling for time.

"Katniss?" He doesn't sound angry but he does sound wounded. I suppose I can't blame him. If you're together with someone you want that person to feel good acknowledging it. Otherwise that person doesn't care enough about you, and that would be very hurtful. The time for not liking the other person back is behind us. That time is before you agree to date. And I do care about Gale. I care about him so much and I don't want to lose him.

"I think tomorrow might be a bad day," I say, forcing myself to lie. "I think Prim has plans to eat dinner at a friend's house." I swallow and force a smile. "Don't you think Sunday would be better?"

The smile he rewards me with is so bright that it brings a touch of genuineness to my own smile. I reach up my hand and caress his cheek, feeling the stubble there. I remind myself that being with Gale is the natural progression, that this is where I should end up. The fact that I'm resisting it has mostly to do with my strong feelings about marriage and not with Gale per se, I tell myself. I don't want to be married to anyone, ever. I know Gale knows this and I should trust him to honour and respect that. I should try and loosen up a bit and let go of my worries. Things will turn out alright. Gale and me telling Mother and Prim that we're going out does in no way mean that we'll start planning a toasting as soon as I turn nineteen. There is no cause to be concerned.

"Sunday sounds perfect, Catnip," grins Gale. He ignores his previous concerns about infecting me with his cold and leans down to give me a long, hard kiss on the mouth. He chuckles happily and pulls me in for a tight hug. "I admit I was getting anxious about you not wanting them to know about us. I can't wait for Sunday! We should meet up early in the woods and try to catch something special for the occasion."

"Gale, it's just telling them we're dating," I point out with a small smile. "We're not announcing our engagement or anything."

"No I know." He pulls back and looks at me with a wide grin. "But I've been waiting for this for a long time and it feels so right to finally be able to say it. To be a couple for real. Even if it doesn't mean much changes when we're out in public. I know you won't want to hold hands at the Hob or things like that, and that's fine. Just knowing that you're my girlfriend is more than enough to make me happy."

"Come on," I say, giving him a pat on the back. "Let's get you back inside. It's freezing out here and getting colder by the minute."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed." He gives me a wink and I roll my eyes, causing him to laugh. The laughter, in turn, sets off a round of coughs. "Sorry," he says between coughs. "I just couldn't help teasing you a bit. I know you hate that mushy stuff."

"Mushy is definitely not _us_ ," I say, opening the door and ushering him inside. I shiver as I close the door behind me. It's warmer in here than in my own home and I decide to stay at least another half-hour until I'm sufficiently warmed up. I take Gale by the hand and lead him into the sitting room, where Rory and Vick and playing something that involves running around a whole lot and making lots of noise. They barely seem to notice that we're come back inside. As we sit down on the couch I notice Gale looking at me intently. "What?" I ask.

"I think that might be the first time you referred to us as… _us._ "

I've used those two letters in reference to him and me countless times over the years but he might be right in that I've never before used it to describe us as a couple. I give him a smile, wondering to myself why things like that matter.

"Well I'll need the practice, won't I? If we're to tell my mother and Prim on Sunday. From then on we'll be an _us_ officially."

He wraps his arm around me and pulls me closer, stifling another few coughs. He buries his face against my hair, mumbling softly to me while his hand draws patterns on my arm.

"We will be… From Sunday forward we'll be _us_. To everyone. And I can't wait."

* * *

"Damn it!" I snarl, just barely resisting the temptation of throwing my quiver down on the snow-covered ground beneath my feet. Twenty-or-so yards away a lanky rabbit disappears into the frozen flora, very much alive and not pierced by my arrow. I curse again under my breath and get up to go find the arrow, hoping it will be in good enough condition to be used again. This is the fifth time I've missed today. One more miss and it will be a new record – one I am not anxious to set.

"I keep telling you to wear gloves," says Gale calmly, adjusting the arrows in his quiver and then putting the quiver back over his shoulder. "Your fingers get too stiff in the cold."

"I can't feel what I'm doing if I'm wearing gloves," I growl in response, searching through the patch of frozen shrubbery which the rabbit disappeared into. Where is that damn arrow? "They're just in the way."

"Can't feel what you're doing if you're frozen solid either."

I make a face in response to his words, knowing he can't see it anyway. My eyes search the area where the arrow ought to be. I'm starting to run low – if I can't find and reuse this one I only have three more, my quiver looking sadly empty. I will then have to spend time fining material for new arrows, not to mention the time in which to make them. I'm hungry. I don't want to spend time on arrows, I want to spend time hunting.

"Maybe we should call it quits for the day," suggests Gale. "We've got my turkey."

"The smallest turkey we've ever felled," I point out. "Barely any meat on it."

"Still more than enough for dinner tonight."

"If you're eating with us then we need to bring home something for your mother and the kids," I argue.

"We have three more snares to check. We might have caught something in one of them."

"And if not?"

"Then it will still be alright, Katniss," he says calmly.

"Damn it," I mutter again. "Damn it, I can't find the arrow!"

"You're not going to be able to hit anything with your mind in a state like that," Gale points out. I turn around and glare at him. "Don't look at me like that. You know I'm right."

Muttering another round of curses under my breath I make my way out from the bushes and back onto the path. Yes I know he's right. Of course he's right. That doesn't mean I have to be gracious or happy about it.

"Come on, honey," says Gale, holding out his hand to me. "Maybe we can find some roots or winter berries to go along with the turkey?"

I hesitate before I take his hand.

"Did you just call me… honey?"

He laughs and pulls me in close, kissing my brow.

"Yes, dear girlfriend. I just called you _honey_."

"I don't like cute pet names," I scowl.

"Well _I_ like them," answers Gale, rolling his eyes. "I like using an endearment with you because I'm endeared by you. You don't have to call me anything like that, at least not yet, not if you're not comfortable with it but I don't see anything wrong with a guy wanting to call his girlfriend _honey_."

"It just doesn't feel natural," I object. "We've been Katniss and Gale with each other all these years. Aside from my actual name the only thing you've ever called me is Catnip." With his hand in mine I begin to walk down the path, heading for the nearest unchecked snare. "I like Catnip. It's something you alone call me. It's personal and it has meaning. Honey is just so… generic."

"Okay… for now," he says, kissing the top of my head. "But you know, the common endearments people use aren't bad just because everyone uses them. In fact there is a _reason_ why they are commonly used."

"Maybe but… Catnip still feels more special."

"Fair enough – but what will you call me?"

"I was thinking I would call you _Gale_."

We continue down the path, the snow creaking underneath our feet with each step we take. The path narrows and we have to walk one in front of the other. Gale leads the way and I follow, shivering in the cold and taking deep breaths through my nose to not let the cold air cool me down further. Each breath I take smells of snow and evergreens and freshness. A few winter birds are fluttering around in the trees, chirping as they go. Somewhere nearby a woodpecker pecks at a tree. There is no wind blowing today, which helps make the temperature endurable. It's the kind of winter's day I normally like.

After a few minutes Gale turns his head and looks at me over his shoulder.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," I nod, bowing my head to avoid a low tree branch.

"Did your parents never use endearments with each other?"

"Maybe they did," I say evasively.

"I'm asking because I'm trying to figure out how come you have such an aversion to things like holding hands or using pet names. I know it's not about a dislike for affection because you're perfectly fine kissing, hugging and so on."

I worry my fingernail between my teeth while I try to figure out what to say to that. I'm not entirely sure myself so it's hard to explain it to Gale. I wish I could be more comfortable with things like that. I wish I could be just fine rubbing my nose to his in public, kissing when other people are around and even calling each other things like _honey_ or _sweetie_. The kind of things that so naturally fall out of my classmates' mouths when they talk to their boyfriends and girlfriends. I wish I could be the kind of girlfriend Gale deserves but if I am to be perfectly honest with myself I don't think that will ever be me. Even when I do reach the point where I feel the same way he does and we've been together long enough for it to feel comfortable and familiar. It doesn't seem to be part of my personality to be at ease with things like that. I don't even like seeing my classmates kiss and touch and call each other sweet endearments. I wish they would do those things in private.

"I don't mind holding hands when we're alone," I finally say. "It's the public display of affection that doesn't sit well with me. It just seems… uncouth to showcase your feelings for one another that way. Nobody cares that much, or wants to see another couple make out."

"You'd be surprised," says Gale. "But go on."

"I just don't like those kind of things," I say with a shrug. "You should know that about me already."

"Actually, no," he says good-naturedly. "I've never seen you in a romantic relationship before now."

"Can we talk about something else, please?" I sigh. "Like what we're going to do if we don't find anything in your remaining snares? Putting food in all our bellies is a much more pressing issue than whether or not I feel comfortable calling you _schnookums_."

Gale laughs heartedly but I fail to see the comedy. These days he can be so distracted at times. Regardless of what happens romantically between us the reality of our lives remain the same – fight to put food on the table and keep everyone warm and safe. The more I think about it the more I begin to feel it's downright asinine to worry about whether or not I want to hold his hand in public and be called pet names. Gale needs to remember his priorities. I'm starting to feel like I'm once more solely carrying the responsibility of providing for everyone, only now the number of people I have to provide for has more than doubled. It exhausts me, saddens me even. I don't want to lose my hunting partner in the process of gaining a romantic partner.

* * *

"It's so nice having you over for dinner, Gale," says Mother. She pours water into his glass, filling it up to the brim. She moves on with the pitcher to fill up Prim's glass next but she keeps her eyes on Gale, smiling softly. "We should do this more often. With your mother and brothers and sister next time."

I spear a lonesome pea with my fork and stick it in my mouth, not bothering to pay much attention to her. She says this every time Gale comes over and eats, has been doing so for five years now, but nothing ever comes of it. She never invites the Hawthornes' over. A few years ago she tried making me ask them a couple of times but I refused. If she wants them over it's up to her to make the invite.

"I like it when you're over for dinner, too," says Prim cheerfully. She winks at Gale and grins. "Whenever you eat with us we get to have the fancy things."

The fancy things in this case being a handful of peas our mother has saved somewhere deep down in the freezer. I definitely won't argue the point with Prim, it is great to have something extra to add flavour to the meal, but I oftentimes wish that my sister could talk of fancy things she gets to eat and refer to thick, creamy sauces, baked potatoes, stewed carrots or any of the other kinds of foods they eat in the Capitol but we can only salivate over from our couches as we watch their meals on the television. Our table has been set with fried turkey, oven-cooked potatoes and the bowl of peas. It smells wonderful, the kind of smell that tells you everyone will leave the table feeling full. I shouldn't complain about it being lacking in comparison to what I see them eat in the Capitol, and I'm not. I'm very, very grateful for it. It's just that I wish I could provide my sister with enough food that a meal like this was commonplace, not luxurious.

"I'm honoured that you bring out the specials on my account," says Gale warmly. "I'm glad to be so welcome in your home."

"Of course you're welcome," I say, just barely resisting a scoff. He gives me a look that tells me he's not directing these things at me right now. He's trying to set the stage for our big reveal. I wish it didn't have to be done with fanfare. Isn't it what everyone has been expecting, anyway?

"Yes certainly," says Mother, her voice friendly but slightly distant. She takes a seat next to Prim and reaches for the plate with the potatoes, the last ones we had in the pantry. She has sliced them into four parts, rubbed them in oil and seasoned them with a little rosemary. They smell lovely and taste even better. But it's only the last week of December and I need to score a good kill, soon, so we can buy more potatoes to last us until spring. "You have always been welcome at our table. In our home."

"It almost seems like you and Katniss have been friends forever," says Prim.

Gale looks at me again, this time raising his eyebrows slightly as he smiles encouragingly. I give him a small nod. We discussed this before we left the woods and headed to the Hob – I will be the one to reveal the news to Mother and Prim. Gale was perfectly happy to do it but I insisted that it should be me. For all my qualms and hesitations I am in this relationship and I want to show him that I meant it when I said yes to dating. I want to show him that I'm not ashamed of being with him or uncomfortable about it. Though I _am_ uncomfortable in certain ways it can't be _Gale_ who is the problem – Gale who has been a source of comfort and security for almost as long as I've known him. It's important to me that he doesn't feel unwanted by me. I want him to be happy, to feel good.

I look down and see his hand on the table, ready to pick up his knife and begin the meal once I have spoken out, and I place my hand on top of his. I close my eyes for a brief second, wishing I didn't feel so on edge about this moment, and then I draw a deep breath and force myself to be completely serene. I look at my mother and my sister, deciding to focus my eyes on Prim.

"As it happens…" I begin, stopping to hark my throat when my voice catches. "Actually Gale and I have been… well…"

"You're dating!" gasps Prim, her eyes wide. A grin spreads across her face and I feel myself blush, wishing we could keep this a little more low-key and not make such a big deal out of it at every turn.

"Well, yeah," I say, feeling Gale lay his other hand on top of mine and give it a brief squeeze.

"That's great!" exclaims Prim. There's a touch of hesitation in her voice and that causes me to look up and meet her eyes. Does she not think this is good? I have no time to wonder about it because Gale's arm now lands around my shoulders, giving me a light shake, and he laughs happily.

"Thank you!" he says. "Thank you. It's exciting and we're both so happy and we're hoping you are both excited for us." His eyes go to my mother and he actually seems a touch nervous.

"Mother?" I say.

Her eyes have gotten that vacant look again. She's been sporting it on and off ever since the Victory Tour began but I was hoping this news would bring her out of her own head and back into the real world. Is it too much to ask that my mother is happy for me when I enter a relationship with my oldest friend?

"Of course we are both excited!" says Prim, jumping up from her seat so fast that her chair almost falls over. "This is great news!" She hurries around the table and throws her arms around Gale and he returns the hug enthusiastically. I take my eyes off my distant mother and smile as I watch my sister and my boyfriend embrace. It means a lot to me that they get along so well and that she approves. I could never date someone if my sister disapproved. Prim pulls back from Gale and moves to hug me instead. "We were kind of wondering if something was going to happen between the two of you," she says as her arms wrap around my neck. "Weren't we, Mother?"

"We were," she says, seemingly snapping out of her trance at least a little bit. She smiles mildly, reaching across the table to put her hand on mine in an affectionate gesture. "This is happy news." Her eyes then go to Gale and she seems a bit less mild, a bit more decisive. "Just remember, Katniss is only seventeen yet. There's still one more Reaping ahead. And I don't want my daughter to be a 'nineteen bride'."

"Mother!" protests Prim, still with her arms around my neck.

"I mean it," she says, more sternly now. "I am very happy for you both. I think it is a good match. But although you have been self-sufficient from an early age, Katniss, you're still under-aged and next summer you won't be that much older."

"Mother," groans Prim, letting go of me.

"No it's fine," I assure her, pulling my hand away from my mother's to pat Prim's arm affectionately. I suppose I could be irritated that she suddenly decides to act like a concerned mother but I'm actually touched and happy that she is displaying these worries. It's not often that I feel that my mother cares for my safety and my future. I know that she does, but she so rarely shows it. I look at my mother and smile at her. "You have nothing to worry about. Marriage is not on the table. I haven't changed my mind about that. We're just dating and that is enough for us."

Prim leans in and kisses my cheek, blocking Gale from my view but when she straightens her back and moves to kiss his cheek too I can see that he is looking at me intently.

"You are absolutely right," he tells my mother, still with his eyes on me. "Katniss is still young – we both are. Plus there's the Reaping looming. We're in no rush." He smiles warmly at me and puts his hand on top of mine. That seems to be the go-to gesture of the evening. "As she just said – getting to be together is enough for us."

"That is so romantic," sighs Prim wistfully. She takes her seat again and begins to cut her food. I decide to do the same, pulling my hand away from Gale and grabbing my cutlery. "Your whole story is, really. If Katniss hadn't had an aversion towards parenthood it would have been a great story to tell the grandkids."

"I guess we'll have to tell it to _your_ grandkids instead," I smile, reaching for the bowl with the potatoes. Prim giggles at this suggestion.

"It _is_ a great story," says Gale, smiling at me as he lifts a forkful of food towards his mouth. "They say a strong friendship is the best foundation for a strong relationship."

He, Prim and even my mother to a degree begin a discussion on that subject but I stay mostly quiet, contemplative. While chewing on my food I worry my mind about the implications of some of the things said tonight. Gale knows that we won't have a toasting but how long does he see this relationship going on? It can't last all our lives, can it? If he wants a wife and a family he's going to have to go looking elsewhere for that. Then what happens to me, to us? A tight knot begins to form in my stomach and I lose my appetite, needing to force myself to swallow bite after bite.

"Actually I must say I'm a little surprised," says Prim, reaching for the bowl of peas. "I was beginning to wonder if maybe you'd start going out with Peeta Mellark."

I freeze, fork in my mouth. I stare at my sister with wide eyes, wondering what possessed her to say something like that at a moment like this. Slowly I pull the fork out, swallowing the bite without chewing, and I reach for my glass to help the food go down.

"Excuse me?" says Gale, his eyes going back and forth between me and Prim. "Am I missing something here?"

"No," I say firmly, giving my sister a pointed look. I take another sip of water and put the glass back down a touch too hard, creating a banging sound against the wooden table. "You're not missing anything. Other than Prim's mind being fixated on boys these days."

"I'm just saying," shrugs Prim and shuffles the peas on her plate as if she hasn't got a care in the world. "You two seemed to really get along when he was here working on your project. I thought that if nothing was to happen between you and Gale then maybe you would end up going on a date with him."

"Well that didn't happen, now did it?"

Gale looks at me intently but he doesn't seem angry or disapproving. Merely puzzled. Then he leans in and kisses me on the cheek.

"I get how you might think along those lines, Prim," he says, keeping his eyes on me. "Lucky for me, I was Katniss' choice."

The conversation returns to safer territories and Gale seems completely at ease but I can't help giving my sister irritated looks throughout the meal. Once every last bit of food has been devoured Mother invites Gale to come sit with us by the fireplace and, in half an hour or so, have some tea. He gladly accepts and offers to go start the fire while the table is cleared. I think he wants me to join him but I announce that I will be helping out in the kitchen. Gale gives me a kiss, the first time anyone has kissed me in front of my mother and sister, and then leaves the room. Mother is suddenly acting nervous, as if I had brought home some suitor she's never met before and wants to impress, and begins to fret over which teacups she should use to serve the tea in. We only have two sets, one that was my father's through inheritance and one that my parents bought together for their tenth anniversary. Both are nice, though the newer one is obviously in better shape so I suggest we go with that one.

"Primrose," I say through gritted teeth as she and I begin to do the dishes. She scrubs, I dry. Our mother brings dirty dishes from the table to the sink and puts clean, dry dishes away in the cabinets.

"Yes?" says my sister sweetly.

"Why, in God's name, would you bring up _Peeta Mellark_ during dinner with Gale? And in a context like that?"

"It was just an observation," she says, shrugging her shoulders. "I did wonder if you would go out with him."

"And you felt _Gale_ needed to know that?"

"He didn't seem upset," she says with another shrug. Her brow furrows as she works on scrubbing something that's gotten stuck in the cast iron pot. "And it doesn't matter anyway. I thought I saw something between Peeta and you but obviously I was wrong and you're in love with Gale. Which, by the way, I think is great!"

I open my mouth to protest the notion that I'm _in love_ with Gale but slowly I close my mouth again. So what if I don't know if it's actually true yet? It will be at some point, I'm sure. Isn't that one of the points of dating – for feelings to get a chance to turn stronger? I take the now clean pot as she hands it to me and begin to dry it off with a worn towel.

"I just don't think it was an appropriate thing to say. I don't want Gale to get the wrong impression."

"Gale trusts you, don't you think?" says Prim, raising her eyebrow at me. "Relax, big sis…" She gives me a playful nudge with her elbow. "You and Gale are going to be so happy together and I'm really excited to see it. You deserve happiness and frankly you deserve to have someone look after you for a change."

My mouth drops a little and I look at her with eyes wide, trying to find something to say in response to that. But she changes the subject and cheerfully begins to praise the dinner we just had and then asks our mother some medical questions and I give up on pulling on that thread for now, though the implication stays with me in the back of my mind.

It's pitch dark outside and freezing cold when I open the door and Gale steps outside. I follow him out, closing the door behind me to keep the cold from getting in and to allow us a moment alone. I'm not wearing any outerwear and I step into Gale's arms, seeking warmth from his body. My cheek rests against his chest and his arms wrap around me. I feel at peace, though there's still a trace of that uncomfortable knot in the pit of my stomach. I'm not sure why it's there and I don't want to think about it now.

"I'm so glad we finally did this," says Gale.

"Me too."

"It just feels so right, you know? Like we were already part of each other's family and now it was taken to the next level." He sighs contently. "Everything feels right about this."

"Like it's the way it was always meant to be," I muse.

His lips press a kiss to the top of my head.

"Katniss… I'm so crazy about you…" His voice sounds different, soft and emotional and loving in a way he's never spoken to me. It irritates me a little to hear it, mostly because I know I'm not in a place where I can reciprocate.

"You mean so much to me," I say instead. It's an absolute truth but it doesn't necessarily have romantic implications. At least not to the degree he's talking about.

"You have no idea how happy I am about all of this," he says, chortling softly against my hair.

"I'm glad you're happy," I respond. "I'm glad I can make you happy."

"Oh Katniss," he chortles. "You can make me happier than anyone else."

I'm shivering from the cold so I pull back and meet his lips for a kiss. He takes his time exploring my mouth and I stroke his tongue carefully with mine, still trying to grasp exactly how this is all supposed to work. He seems very pleased with my efforts so I guess I'm doing it right. But by now I'm so cold I'm about to start clattering my teeth so I end the kiss and pull back, wrapping my arms around myself and nodding at the door.

"Better go inside before I turn into an icicle."

"You do that," he laughs. "Thank you for tonight, Katniss. It was truly great."

He grins widely and waves at me as he hurries down to the street and begins his walk home. I hurry back inside to the relative warmth, blinking slightly in the brightness indoors. The electricity has been working every night for two weeks now. It usually does around Victory Tour times. Luckily the fences have been the exception.

I rub my hands together to generate some warmth and I hurry to the sitting room to wrap myself in a blanket. Mother sits in an armchair with one of her few medical books open on her lap, though I'm sure she knows those books by heart after all these years. She doesn't look up when I enter the room. Prim is on the couch with Buttercup purring on her lap. She smiles and gives me a knowing look. I smile back and sit down, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch.

"It's freezing out there," I shiver, wrapping the blanket around me.

"Yet you stayed out for a while saying goodnight," remarks Prim with an eyebrow raised suggestively.

"Prim…"

"Oh come on, can't a baby sister tease just a little?" She scratches Buttercup behind his ear and the cat looks positively ecstatic.

"We don't need to make a big deal out of it," I say. "Gale and I are still the same people. We're just…"

"In love? Kissing now? Future legal family members?" She frowns and tilts her head, studying me with sudden seriousness. "Is everything alright? You look preoccupied."

"Everything's fine," I say, slowly starting to warm up underneath the blanket. "I'm just… thinking of something Gale said right before he left."

Prim giggles and turns her attention to Buttercup instead of me. I bet she's thinking he said something romantic, and I guess that's what he did, but what I'm stuck on are his parting words, thanking me for tonight. It reminds me strongly of how Peeta always thanks me for the day when we're done with our project for the week.

I sigh and tilt my head backwards, closing my eyes. It's a good thing Gale didn't seem bothered when Peeta was brought up because my project partner seems to have gotten a lot of attention tonight when he oughtn't to have been lent so much as a single thought. How exactly did the boy with the bread become a part of my life to such an extent?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really suck at chemistry, never have been able to wrap my mind around it, which is why I chose that as the subject Peeta is having trouble with. Poor guy gets to inherit my idiocies... ;)
> 
> I have talked about this in a few comments, PMs and the like but I felt I should mention it here as well, where everyone can see it. I know Katniss and Gale are fighting a lot, and it is in part intended as a sign that they're not relationship compatibe but it's also about something else. It's not uncommon for two people who have had one kind of relationship for a long time and then find themselves in a different relationship to have an adjustment period that might include a lot of arguing. All of a sudden they have new roles and the relationship has new "rules", paramaters, etc. Sometimes this isn't a problem at all and can actually give the relationship a boost but it can also cause problems at first, which doesn't mean the relationship won't work out and eventually be great (although let's face it, Galeniss are doomed to fail here). Either way I decided I wanted to include this in the story as part of the obstacles Katniss and Gale face in going from close friends and hunting partners to boyfriend and girlfriend. Katniss is having a hard time suddenly being a girlfriend and wrapping her mind around the ways in which her relationship to Gale is suddenly different and I think Gale might be struggling sometimes as well, trying to find his new role as boyfriend. The result is a lot of bickering and fighting, but it will diminish after a while.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts =)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of an in-betweener... Sorry about that. =)

Monday afternoon Peeta's eyes meet mine across the classroom as the teacher announces that our last class before Project Hour is over. We have a ten minute break coming up but lately Peeta and I have taken to heading straight for the assembly room to claim our table. Ten minutes isn't much of a break, more like a leg-stretcher, and I wouldn't do much with that time anyway. Peeta's clique always seems to have enough time to have fun together in some way or another, no matter how short a break, but he chooses to forgo that at this hour every Monday. I stand up and gather my things, putting them into my backpack in no particular order, and put my backpack on. Peeta isn't done neatly stacking up his books and notepads when I reach his seat in the classroom and I smirk and try not to roll my eyes at the orderly fashion in which he does things like that. Putting your books into your backpack or your locker seems to be something of a science with him.

"Why are you always ready faster than I am?" he mutters rhetorically under his breath, putting the last of his things into his pack. "Okay, ready."

We leave the classroom together, one or two of his merchant friends stopping us along the way to try and convince him to come join them for whatever it is they plan on doing for the next ten minutes. Peeta shrugs them off with a smile and joins me in walking towards the assembly room. On the way there he asks about my weekend and I give only a short retelling of events, namely that I did nothing much on Saturday and on Sunday Gale came over for dinner. Peeta nods and launches into a vivid description of an incident that happened in the bakery with his brother Scotti on Saturday. I remind myself that this is why it's so beneficial for us to head straight for the assembly room without taking the break first. Peeta is naturally chatty and with each week he seems to require more and more time to talk about random topics before he can settle down and focus on the work. Just as well then to talk it all out before the hour actually starts.

"So how did you do on the chemistry test?" I ask as we get our things in order at the table, books and papers seemingly everywhere.

"Okay, I guess," he answers with a shrug and a slight scowl. "I mean, I definitely didn't ace it. But I know I didn't flunk it either, which is the most important part. My parents will have to settle for a medium degree."

"Your parents must be thrilled about our grades in general," I note, opening the plastic binder that holds my work for the project. "I strive to keep myself on better-than-average levels so I can have a shot at decent employment this summer but you… You seem to have top grades in almost everything and you don't even _need_ it."

"Why on earth do you think I don't need it?" he asks, looking bewildered.

"Well, I mean… Bakery job or not, you're from town…"

"So what? You think jobs will be lined up for me just because my hair is blond and my father doesn't mine coal?" He sounds offended and that takes me by surprise. Why would anyone be offended about not being on the bottom rung of life?

"No, I mean…" I begin, scratching my neck in an awkward gesture. If I have insulted him then that makes me feel bad and I want to smooth things over. "You must have a ton of connections. Growing up in town, being friends with other merchants, having relatives who run various businesses… Connections help out a lot when you're trying to get a job; the people who hire already know you and know your strengths. Whereas I have to rely on my grades and my ability to charm a potential employer into wanting to hire me." I sigh and make a face. "An ability I was born without, unfortunately."

Peeta studies me with a soft expression on his face, no longer seeming to be offended or irritated.

"You don't actually believe that, do you?" he says.

"You don't actually mean you _don't_ ," I snort in reply. "Who do you think they'd rather hire? You, a person they've known for years and know is a safe bet or me, a person they've never seen before, who might be utterly wrong for the job?"

"I meant about you being born without any charm."

Suddenly feeling uncomfortable under his gaze I turn my eyes to the material for our project, racking my brain to come up with something to say to steer the conversation into more appropriate territories. I end up just staying silent, like an idiot, and Peeta doesn't press the subject further. The assembly room begins to fill up with people as more and more students from our class settle in to work and a few kids in grades below ours take refuge here to do their homework here in peace. Relative peace, anyway. It can get pretty loud in here with so many pairs working together on the project. All the same it's probably a better study environment than many homes.

"I think we should start with…" I begin but I notice Peeta's attention isn't on me anymore. He's half turned around in his chair, from what I can tell looking at a very sullen boy who is shooting him death glares from the other side of the room. "Peeta?"

"What?" he says absent-mindedly, not turning around.

"Peeta… Hello? Are you still with me?"

The other boy makes a face at Peeta and mouths something I can't make out. Peeta sighs and turns back around. He runs a hand through his ashen hair, looking frustrated and a little weary.

"Just… give me a minute…" he says. He gets up from his seat and walks over to the other boy. They seem to talk heatedly for a minute or two, the other boy gesticulating rather vigorously throughout, then Peeta holds up both hands in a surrendering gesture and turns back to our table, shaking his head all the while. The whole scene surprises me. I've never known Peeta to get into fights at school, unlike some of our classmates who seem very prone to brawls. Not that what I just witnessed was a brawl but something tells me it could be a prelude to one.

"What was that about?" I ask warily as he pulls out his chair and sits back down. I note that the other boy still glares, seeming just as sullen as before.

"I'm sorry," says Peeta with a sigh. "I shouldn't have gone over there, it's rude, you and I are supposed to get started. I don't mean to bore you with all this 'drama' going on. It has nothing to do with our work so it's inconsequential right now."

"If you say so." I study him on the sly, truthfully quite curious about what's actually going on. I've never cared about gossip or the various antics of my schoolmates but this silent theatre going on between Peeta and that other boy has caught my attention. I study my notebook for a minute, pretending to read through some of what we got done last time, and when I look up again that boy is still glaring at us. "I don't mean to stick my nose where it isn't wanted," I say, "but that guy seems hell-bent on giving you the evil eye until you crumble or run away or something."

Peeta casts a look over his shoulder.

"One might wonder why he bothers, seeing as how my back is turned towards him and I have to turn around to see him," he sighs.

"I'll admit," I say, putting my pencil down, "I'm a bit curious. Why, exactly, is he glaring at you like that? If you don't mind me asking, of course."

Peeta casts another look at the boy and then turns back to me, a somewhat troubled look on his face.

"You remember at the Harvest Festival, when you and I ran into each other?"

"Yeah?"

"I had to help Jess Adams, who was… overly inebriated, so to speak."

"Right."

"Jessamyn lives near me. Her older sister Caitlin used to go out with Scotti their three last years of school. We were all quite convinced Scotti and Caitlin would end up getting married, as you can probably imagine, and our families spent a bit of time together. When I ran into Jess at the festival, drunker than Haymitch Abernathy on Reaping Day, I couldn't just leave her like that. Ryean saw us, came over and we brought her back home."

I nod slowly, remembering seeing all of this but still not getting what this has to do with the boy glaring angrily at Peeta. Does he think Peeta, or Ryean, did something bad to Jessamyn? If so he should speak up and not just sit there and glare.

"That boy over there…" He makes a nodding motion with his head in the direction of the glarer. "That's Jessamyn's boyfriend. Apparently someone saw me carrying her when she was all but passed out, before my brother got there, and spun it into something more than what it was, or at least made some suggestions along those lines. Bradley's been pissed at me ever since. I've told him half a dozen times that nothing happened and that I'm not interested in Jess, she's too young for me and it would be weird dating a girl I at one point thought would be my brother's sister-in-law."

"And our sourpuss over there won't listen to reason?" I conclude.

"Nope," says Peeta dryly. "Me not being involved with anyone is apparently enough to convince him I must be secretly lusting for her." He makes a face, the leans in closer to me in order to speak in more confidence. "You know what really irritates me about how he's acting?"

"All of it?" I suggest dryly, looking over at the boy over Peeta's shoulder. "It seems like a colossal waste of time to just sit there and… glower."

"Say he's right," says Peeta. "Say I did have a thing for Jess and at the Harvest Festival I seized the opportunity to be a chivalrous suitor who helped her get out of a tough spot, hoping to win her affections in the process. What the hell should that even _matter_? If I want to be with her, does that mean I get to be? No. She's with Bradley and I can only be a threat if she feels something for me – which she does not." He sits back normally and shakes his head, looking very disapproving. "Whatever problems they may have it has little to nothing to do with me. I just feel sorry for her, being with a guy who trusts her so little."

"Though you don't know if she's done something to earn that mistrust," I can't help but point out. "Fair should be fair."

Peeta gives me a look similar to the one Bradley is still giving him. His arms are crossed over his chest and he raises one of his eyebrows.

"Really, Katniss? _Fair_? I don't think he's acting the least bit _fair_."

"I'm simply saying that while you might be right and he's just a jerk, the reality might also be that Jessamyn hasn't been the best girlfriend."

"What exactly are you implying?" he asks, looking very disapproving.

"I'm just saying, we have no way of knowing and maybe we shouldn't judge."

"Well I do know this," says Peeta with a snort. "If you have that much distrust, warranted or not, maybe it's better to talk it out or cut your losses than to spend weeks obsessing over whether or not some guy who held her hair back for her when she puked is lying awake at night fantasizing about being in her arms."

"Maybe he really cares for her and wants to make it work, despite whatever may have happened between them," I say pensively, twirling a pencil between my fingers.

"Yeah, well he should leave me out of it," says Peeta sourly. "I am not a factor. As I said, it doesn't matter whether or not I want to be with her; what matters to her boyfriend is who _she_ wants to be with."

"Okay," I say to placate him. An awkward silence fills the next couple of minutes and then Peeta sighs and opens his notepad to where we left off before the break.

"Let's get back to our essay," he says. "You sure you're okay with me writing? You don't want to have a go at it?"

"Works just fine for me," I say. That's an understatement. He's much better at how to phrase things, having a way with words that I could never hope to match, not to mention I've realized his penmanship is a lot better than mine. To a degree that makes me a touch ashamed of my own handwriting.

"So, where we last left off…" he says, glancing at the notepad. His lips move as he seems to read the last sentences in his head. "Right. We're almost done with the things we feel a child needs growing up. You have the notes from our brainstorming?"

"Yeah," I say, quickly sorting through my papers to find it. I spot it, grab it and hold it out to him. "Here!"

"Why don't you hold on to it and read from it and we'll work together on how to get it down in the essay? Same as how we went about it last time." He frowns a little and glosses over the things I wrote down last time. "Shouldn't take us more than ten minutes to finish up this part. It's pretty straight-forward. Then it's on to the values part."

I nod slightly, trying not to feel overwhelmed by the task facing us. Essay-writing has never been my strong suit and it's more difficult to write an essay together, especially when it's with someone you haven't known very long and even more so when the topic of the essay is about feelings and values and your subjective opinions. I think this project might actually mark the first time we've been given essays as assignments without the requirement of referring everything to a factual source. There's not much room for objectivity or proven facts in this essay, except if we are to argue that our described values are valid for a specific reason. Frankly our teachers aren't interested in objective truths with this. That's not the point of the exercise. The point is to make us think about what is important to us and what we want to convey on our children one day. It's to make us think about the things that matter to us, how we see the world and to realize that our views and values are probably never identical to another person's – even the person we marry and have babies with. What values are we willing to compromise about and what values are deal-breakers, those are the kinds of questions our teachers seem to be hoping to evoke. As difficult as it is to write this thing I do have to hand it to the teachers who crafted this assignment. It's probably the smartest part of the project thus far and to anyone who takes the essay seriously and who understands what it really is about it's undoubtedly going to be an eye-opener and actually prepare us for when we have to face this in real life. Even for someone like me, who never plans on having children, these things seem worth giving some thought. But that doesn't change the fact that it's terribly hard to write together with another person.

"Alright then," says Peeta when we're finished with the first part. "Do you want to give it a read-through before we move on?"

"You've said everything out loud to me as you've written it down," I point out with a lopsided smirk. I don't even know if he realizes he does that.

"Do you want to give it a read-through?" he asks again, looking into my eyes with complete seriousness.

"No," I say, feeling a little like a scolded child. "No, I'll wait and read through the whole all once it's done."

He nods slowly, studying what he has written up until now. It's all in one of his notebooks but he's going to transcribe it over to an A4 sheet of paper later in the format our teachers always require for essays. I would offer to do that part since he's done the bulk of the writing so far but I only need to look at what he's written and think of my own handwriting in comparison to think the better of it. I'll take on a bigger part for the next leg of the project instead.

"Okay, so, values…" Peeta begins, leaning back in his chair and drumming the back of his pencil against the sheet with instructions for the assignment. "How do we want to raise our fictional child? What values do we want to pass on to young Cookie Crisp?"

"Seriously, you need to stop calling it that!" I say. "Or it will stick and we won't be able to think of the kid having any other name."

"Any thoughts? About the values, I mean, not the name."

"Well, one," I mumble. "The one we discussed before. No physical punishments."

He nods. He doesn't write it down and neither do I. It seems like a given, anyway. No need to put it in writing to make sure we remember to include it. It's odd, though, that this should be the only thing we can think of right away. I thought this would be the easy part – what basic morals are important to me, who am I as a person, questions that I should know the answer to. Why does it seem so hard to talk about it? Are we both feeling insecure opening up to one another about something that is, at its core, very intimate?

Finally Peeta groans and draws his hand over his face, from his forehead and downward, stopping to pinch the bridge of his nose and then travelling all the way down to his chin. He seems frustrated and in the midst of my own awkwardness in the moment I feel just the tiny bit curious. He seems like such an open person but clearly sharing this kind of information comes difficult to him too.

"Let's just tell it like it is," he says, "we have no chance of getting this done in the…" He looks over at the large clock on the wall. "Thirty-five minutes that remain of this school day. And just sitting here like we're playing share-your-ethics chicken won't get us anywhere." He huffs and shifts in his chair, leaning forward over the table with his upper-body weight supported on his crossed arms. "I can't focus here, can't relax and… open up… with so many people around." He rolls his eyes. "Especially not with the guy whose girlfriend I apparently lust after without even knowing it myself staring at me like he wants to go three rounds with me on the playground outside."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"I suggest we call it a day. Each of us goes home, or to some other place where we can think in peace, and we try and figure this out for ourselves. Maybe you already have most of it worked out but I've been so caught up on the chemistry test that I honestly didn't bother with this. I thought it would come easy once we sat here but it doesn't."

"Yeah," I nod in agreement.

"So we figure it out, maybe write a thing or two down, and then we meet up and finish writing it."

"But this leg of the project is due Monday morning," I point out.

"I know." He starts to gather his things. "Is it okay with you if we meet up at your house again?"

"Uhm… Yeah, sure. Yeah."

"Okay good." He's moving surprisingly fast, already his things have been put back in his worn backpack. "Sunday good? I can talk to my father and get the whole day off from the bakery, or trade with Scotti whose week it is." When he stands up I finally get moving too, gathering the papers I have spread out on the table along with the contents of my pencil case. "I don't mean to intrude on your Sunday but I think we should set aside most of the day, just to be on the safe side. I can finish the transcribing in the evening."

"Peeta I can do that part," I say, feeling I need to at least make the offering. "You're already doing the first draft, or whatever we should call it. It's not fair to let you do the transcribing part as well."

"No," he says, shaking his head. "It's my idea to postpone so I will do it."

"If you're sure…" I say hesitantly.

He smiles slightly.

"I'm sure."

I nod tentatively. It occurs to me that perhaps his family have better odds at having electrical lighting on a Sunday evening than we do in the Seam and that he's just trying to be subtle about it and not rub it in my face, but on the other hand I don't know how he would know anything about our lack of electricity, or for that matter why it would make a difference where in the district you live.

"Hey, do you want me to walk with you to the crossroads?" I ask, getting up and reaching for my scarf. "That guy is still giving you the stink eye and since he's not in our class he's done for the day and can leave whenever."

Peeta's smile becomes a bit wider.

"Well I don't think I have anything to fear if he tries to pick a fight with me; he didn't make the wrestling team this year either. I do appreciate the offer and I would love to have your company for the walk, but I _did_ make the wrestling team and I have practice today after school."

"Oh. Right." Why is he so quick to pack up all his things, then, if he's not hoping to get home early?

"But so Sunday it is, then?" he says, putting his backpack on. "At what time should I be there?"

"Make it ten," I answer, putting my jacket on. That gives me a bit of time to hunt with Gale and trade at the Hob.

"Ten it is," he nods. He gives me a smile which I return. "It's all settled, then. Thank you for today. I will see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow…"

He winks at me and then he's off, walking in the direction of the lockers. I head for the bathroom and then go to my own locker, getting the things I need before closing it and locking it up. Slowly I make my way towards the main doors, thinking to myself that I can go out into the woods now that I'm getting home a bit early. As I step outside into the bitter cold I turn my head in the direction of the gym hall where the wrestling team practices. They don't start until fifteen minutes after our last class for the day has ended, giving the senior students time to put their books away and get changed. That gives Peeta about forty-five minutes. He seemed like he was eager to get going and I'm curious as to why. There's nothing going on between him and Jessamyn Adams but what about that other girl he was with? The one he was dancing with and laughing with. The one with the headband. Could she be the reason why he almost seemed in a rush to get done for the day and head off?

I begin my walk home and as I trudge through the snow that has fallen during the afternoon I try to put it from my mind. It's none of my business if he's off in some secluded corner kissing that girl, or any other girl for that matter. Didn't he say earlier that he's not in a relationship? But that doesn't mean he was telling the truth, or that he isn't in the early stages of dating someone, before they have decided to be a steady couple. Catching myself with these thoughts I shake my head firmly. What's wrong with me? Seriously. There could be any number of things he's doing. Perhaps he's heading to the gym hall early to warm up and practice something or other. Or there's another test he needs to study for. Whatever he's up to it is decidedly none of my business and I should stop thinking about it.

I have enough to worry about with my own life at the moment.

* * *

"Katniss, are you staying home this evening?"

I look up from my homework with a surprised expression. The question from my mother seems so random that I almost wonder for a second if she's gone over the deep end and retreated into her own world.

"Where else would I be going?" I question. The wind is picking up outside and snow is falling heavily. The temperature is a bit milder but that only facilitates the snowfall. It's a very unpleasant evening to set foot outdoors unless you absolutely need to.

"Did you look outside, Mother?" questions Prim carefully. She's on the threaded old rug on the floor that's just far enough from the fireplace that sparks won't fly and land on it to cause a fire. In front of her is an open history book which she studies with anything but glee. "The weather is terrible. Might turn into a blizzard."

Our mother looks out the window. The darkness makes the bad weather difficult to see but the howling wind can be heard throughout our old house. She looks mildly surprised, as if she truly hadn't noticed the weather but doesn't honestly care either.

"Oh." She shrugs slightly and takes a seat next to Buttercup on the couch. "I just thought that maybe you would have plans with Gale tonight."

"And what would we go do in this kind of weather?" I ask, just barely keeping myself from snorting. I turn my attention back to my school book.

"Discover the indoors," she answers, a touch of actual dry sarcasm in her tone. She sighs wistfully, scratching the cat behind is raggedy ear. "I remember what it was like, don't think that I don't." I look up at her with a scowl. The distant look on her face that I am so used to seeing has a touch of something different, something nostalgic. "When your father and I first fell in love… It was like magic." I squirm where I sit, finding it awkward to say the least. I share a look with Prim but she looks enthralled. She loves hearing about our father, and usually I do too but perhaps not in this particular context. "We had to sneak around a bit at first, find places where we could spend time together. My parents did not approve, of course, and neither did his."

"What does any of this have to do with Gale and I?" I ask, cutting her off before she goes too far down memory lane. By the look on her face she's almost forgotten that her daughters are in the room and she looks a touch surprised at hearing my voice. Her expression sobers up but retains its small smile.

"I suspect we will be seeing less and less of you now with all your free time being spent with him."

"He works in the mines," I point out dryly. "He doesn't _have_ free time."

She gives me a look that I can't decipher so I leave it be. My attention turns to my book again and for a good half-hour or so nobody speaks, aside from a mutter or two from Prim who truly hates her history homework. Then Mother breaks the silence by once again discussing my love life, as if it were any of her business.

"I know you are a responsible young woman, Katniss," she says, and I look up at her as if she had just spontaneously burst into song or something. "But I feel that a few ground rules should be made clear."

"About what?" I ask, not bothering to hide how irritated I am getting. From the corner of my eye I see Prim giving me a look pleading me to be nice but it has little effect on me in my current state of mind.

"Gale is of course welcome to visit here whenever he wants."

"I should think so. He always has been up until now."

"But I do not want him staying over, is that understood? Not until you are older, at least. In fact I don't want the pair of you to be alone together in your bedroom."

"Where else _can_ they be alone together?" remarks Prim, one eyebrow raised. "Our house is pretty small."

"Katniss understands what I'm talking about."

My mother's eyes bears into mine, a kind of seriousness in them which I rarely see. It makes me squirm uncomfortably. It's obvious what she's talking about and my mother thinking about those things makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

"Don't worry," I say firmly, hoping to put an end to this conversation. "There will be no inappropriate things going on."

"Oh I'm sure there will be," answers Mother, making me want to leave the room instantly to get away from this awkward moment. "I know what it's like to be your age and in love. But I don't want it happening under my roof. And we should talk protection at some point."

My eyes pass by Prim and I'm startled to see her sporting a grin, following the conversation with utter fascination.

"What Gale and I do is none of your business," I tell my mother sharply.

"It is when it happens under my roof."

"Well it won't. And that's all the _protection_ I need to know about." I stand up and grab my book. I won't be able to study anywhere else as the power went out hours ago and this is the only room lit well enough. I don't care. I won't stay and listen to this.

"Now, Katniss, there's no need to get irritable."

I scoff and leave the room in a stride, feeling absolutely mortified. Now not only do I have to live with the knowledge that my mother worries about me and Gale having sex, and Prim apparently taking great interest in the topic, but I also have the most unwelcome images of my parents engaging in kissing and who knows what else? I go inside my bedroom, trying to think of anything but the unwelcome images of my parents.

In a moment of childishness I fling my book on my small writing desk, regretting it immediately as it knocks over the old glass Prim and I use as a pencil stand. I let both the book, the pencils and the glass be. I can pick it all up tomorrow. The room is almost entirely dark except for the light coming in from the window – not moonlight but the sky itself being lit up in orange and soft pink from the falling snow. Usually it doesn't light up this way when it's nearly storming but tonight it does and it provides enough illumination for me to find the box of matches and the oil lamp on my nightstand. Once the wick is lit and the match has been put out I lay down on the bed, my chin resting on my crossed arms.

My mother and I have never had a confiding type relationship. Not even when I was little and she was happy. Even then I would run to my father when I had a secret to tell or a question about the ways of the world. My mother knows I've never been comfortable opening up to her. Why should she expect that to change now? Deep down what upsets me the most is that she ought to know me well enough to know this conversation isn't necessary. How can a mother not know that her nearly adult daughter has decided never to marry or have children? Is it too much to ask that she take at least _some_ interest in who I am as a person, beyond what use I am by bringing home food?

A soft knock on the door interrupts my thoughts, followed by my sister's equally soft voice coming from the other side of the door.

"Katniss? May I come in?"

With a slight huff I shift onto my back and pull myself up into a sitting position. It's her bedroom too, of course she can come in. But it's just like my sweet sister to not just barge in and to actually respect my privacy.

"Yeah, of course," I say, just loud enough so that she can hear.

The door opens a little bit and Prim stands there for a second, a candle in her hand and a worried expression on her face. I make a face at myself for making my baby sister worry about me over something like this and I wave at her to come inside. She walks in and closes the door behind her, walking over to the bed and putting her candle down next to the oil lamp.

"Okay if I sit?"

"Prim, this is your bed," I say with a mild chuckle. I pat the spot next to me and she climbs up and joins me. To show her that she's not unwelcome I wrap an arm around her shoulders and she leans her head against mine. "Have you come to scold me for getting angry at Mother?" I ask. "Or are you here to check up on me because I'm acting completely irrational and might have had a seizure or something?"

"If you'd had a seizure you would have more alarming symptoms that made storming off quite difficult," she says, gazing up at me with a pointed look.

"You know what I mean, though."

She nods slightly and pauses.

"She means well, Katniss. She's just concerned."

"Of what? Out-of-wedlock pregnancy?" I sigh and shake my head. "Prim it's a little late in the game for her to be suddenly lecturing me on what I can and cannot do."

"Well, she is our mother," argues Prim. "Making sure we don't do inappropriate things is kind of her job."

"Going outside the fences and into the woods to hunt would be considered wildly inappropriate by most," I retort. "Never seen her try to stop me from doing that."

"She's just looking out for you."

"Prim, I'm seventeen. She hasn't been doing much of looking out for me for seventeen years."

"Yes she has," argues Prim. "You know she has. She worries when you don't come home on time, she-"

"You know what I'm talking about." A scowl comes over my face. "And besides, this is Gale we're talking about here! Gale Hawthorne, the guy who has been helping all of us live for the better part of five years. He's never done anything to hurt me. It's a little insulting that she would all of a sudden think of him as someone who might do something to me that he oughtn't to."

"Katniss I don't think she worries he's going to push you into doing something you don't want to do," says Prim, sounding a touch amused for some reason. "He's a gentleman, even if he's not like the boys she grew up with as far as manners go."

I roll my eyes, thinking of the number of merchant boys who have no compunction regarding bringing girls to the slag heap for any number of un-gentlemanlike behaviours but I don't want to talk about that with my sister.

"No, he's better than the boys she grew up with," I settle for saying.

"But there's a great big difference between him forcing you to do something you're not ready for and the two of you willingly engaging in things like that."

"For goodness sake, _Prim_!" I cannot believe it, do I now have to listen to my _sister_ talking about me being physical with Gale? For that matter, how come the mere thought of it doesn't make her skin crawl, the way mine does knowing that she and my mother apparently think about it? "Look, it's not _like_ that with Gale and I. Okay?"

"What do you mean?" says Prim with a light scoff. "You're in love platonically? Come on Katniss, I'm not a dummy or a little child. I know what couples like to do."

"Oh God…" I groan, pulling my arm away from her and burying my face in my hands. "Do I really have to have this talk with you, too?"

"No," she chuckles. "I'm just trying to make you see… She's not a dummy either, sis, and she's a healer at that. You know, delivering babies and whatnot? She knows you and Gale are going to want to-"

"Primrose!" I say firmly, looking up at her with a very stern face.

"Well, anyway…" shrugs Prim. "I told her she doesn't have to worry so much. I reminded her that you are a sensible person and you probably won't do anything rash." She gives my leg a hearty pat. "You'll be able to save yourself for marriage."

"Seriously?" I ask, wondering if she too suddenly has forgotten that I never intend on having a toasting.

"I know how you think and feel about marriage," she says calmly. "Probably you'll stick with that. But who knows? You might end up surprising yourself." She gets back down on the floor and grins at me, reaching for her candle. "All will be well, sis. And now I fear I've taken a long enough break from my history book. You should pick up your book and come join us again. I promise Mother won't talk about you and Gale anymore. Unless you want her to."

"I wholeheartedly don't," I assure my sister.

She smiles and shrugs, leaving the room and giving me a bit of privacy again. I sigh and contemplate following her suggestion and going back out there. I need to study but I really don't feel like being in the same room with my mother. Funny, when Gale was here for dinner and we told them our news I was happy that my mother took an interest and showed concern. Why does it anger me so much tonight? Is it just because it embarrasses me when she tries to talk about intimacy issues?

Mustering my energy I scoot forward and let my feet land on the cold floor. I get up and cross the short distance to the writing desk, picking up the book and rearranging the glass and the pencils while I'm at it. Who knows how long this weather is going to last? Perhaps we won't even be able to go to school for a day or two if it turns into a blizzard. I might be stuck indoors with my mother for a while and if that is the case I might as well try and act a bit mature and swallow my embarrassment and my somewhat wounded pride. Holding back a heavy sigh I carry the book under my arm, lean over and snuff out the oil lamp and then leave my room and head back out to my mother and sister.

Prim looks up at me with a pleased smile and a wink. Mother doesn't even seem to notice that I'm back until I sit down in the armchair, shoving Buttercup out of the way in the process. From the look I get I can tell my mother thinks I'm the one being unreasonable and that she doesn't feel she needs to apologise for anything. Well I'm certainly not going to apologise either. Perhaps it isn't actually necessary for either one of us to do so. We settle for acknowledging one another with a look and then I open the book and find the page I was reading.

"Oh by the way, Peeta is coming over on Sunday to work on the project," I say in a catty tone, unable to resist getting one last petty remark in. Childish, I know, but to be honest I don't feel like being a mature adult tonight. "Is that alright? Or do I need a chaperone for that as well?"

"Oh how nice to see him again," says Mother in a calm voice, showing no trace of wanting to take my bait.

"Can Katniss be alone with _him_ in her bedroom?" asks Prim, a Cheshire Cat grin all over her face. The surprised look I give her is nearly rivalled by that of our mother. "What? I still say it makes sense for them to work in there. Less distractions, more… privacy…" She wiggles her eyebrows as she says the last word and it almost makes me laugh.

"I can't imagine Katniss doing anything inappropriate with young mister Mellark and cheat on Gale," says Mother and now my surprised face is directed at her. Young mister Mellark? Me cheating? What on earth? "But all the same I would prefer it if you kept your study sessions in the kitchen or the sitting room."

"Fine," I say with a sigh, now deeply regretting having brought Peeta up in the first place. I turn my attention back to the book on my lap, or at least I try to. "But for the record I would indeed never cheat on Gale and nothing inappropriate would be going on behind closed doors even if Gale was the one there with me."

"I'm glad to hear it," says Mother, putting her needlework aside and rising from her spot on the couch.

"I'm not," Prim stage-whispers as soon as she is out of hearing range. "Seriously Katniss, you could use some fun in your life."

The mischievous look on her face makes it impossible to be angry with her so I settle for ignoring her so that I don't encourage this. I know she's just teasing me but I could really do without it. I wouldn't mind being alone with Gale in my bedroom so we could talk in private and I know with complete certainty that he will never try and pressure me into something I'm not ready for or willing to do. But I also know that if he were to come visit and we were to go into the bedroom and close the door I would never hear the end of it from my mother or my sister and it doesn't seem quite worth it. Not when we have the woods, our glade in particular, where we can be alone as much as we want to be.

* * *

Thankfully the weather improves the following day and no blizzard hits. When I wake up early on Sunday morning it's cold, Prim has wrapped herself all around me in her sleep to get some warmth, but the sky is clear and I can't hear the wind howling. I untangle myself from my sister, waking her up in the process but she is back to sleep again by the time I've shimmied into my pants and pull a sweater over my head. I peek out through the blinders and although it's still dark out at this early hour it looks like it can be a promising day. The crescent moon above provides some illumination, enough to make the snow-covered ground glisten and to help me find my way to the glade without problem. I tiptoe through the house and prepare a thermos with hot tea to bring with me. I wish we had something I could eat for breakfast but no such luck. I'm hopeful that we will be able to bring home enough game to allow us to sell some of it for money to use at the marketplace. I want to buy potatoes and perhaps some salted fish.

By the time I step outside my stomach is growling but I ignore it and wrap my scarf tighter around me. There's about a decimetre of snow on the ground which thankfully means I won't have to plod my way towards the Meadow. I know once I get there the snow will be thicker and there will be a crust that probably can't hold my weight. It's difficult work to trudge across the Meadow when several steps has you sinking knee-deep down into the snow but it cannot be helped. If I'm lucky then Gale will already be out there and have made a path for me to follow. He takes larger steps than I do but it's still easier to follow after him and be able to step in at least some of his footsteps.

We find each other out in the glade and sit there together in comfortable silence, drinking tea and huddling close together to share our body heat. It's almost completely silent out in the glade this morning, a sharp contrast to how the wind has been howling several days this week. Gale takes my hand in his and I give a light squeeze. This I can get used to. Just the two of us out here, drinking our tea and waiting for game to hopefully pass us by. Holding hands and sitting close together, enjoying one another's company without the need for lots of kisses and conversations about _us_. Not that I have a problem with kissing or that I dislike talking about us but I don't want to do it all the time, every time we're together.

We're in luck this morning. Just as the sun begins to rise on the horizon a flock of birds of some kind come clucking into our glade. Sharing a look with Gale I lift up my bow slowly and as silently as I can. He gets on his feet without hardly making a sound and together we move as quietly as possible, hoping that the birds won't notice our presence. From the looks of it these birds haven't been hunted much, if at all, because surely they must be able to at least pick up on our scent and should be a little bit wary. Too bad for them, I guess. We are able to fell two birds, one each, and I share a smile with Gale as the rest of the birds fly away. I suppose we could have aimed to fell one more each but I don't recognize this type of bird, they must be on their way south for the winter and just briefly passing by, which means we don't know if we'll be able to sell them. True, many are starving and would eat them even if they turn out not to taste so good, but those people cannot afford to buy the birds from us. We need to sell to peacekeepers or well-off merchants who won't be interested unless they know what they are buying.

"I call this a good start," I say with a grin, walking up to the bird I felled. Gale laughs and gives my cheek a brief caress and I decide to celebrate the moment by giving him a kiss. The warm smile he rewards me with makes me feel good inside and I'm almost blushing as I pick up the bird and tie its feet together with a piece of string from my game bag. "We have dinner for both our families and the sun is not up yet. These things look big enough to provide food for at least a couple of days."

"Do you want to go scouting for rabbits or for squirrels?" asks Gale, tying up the feet of his own bird. "We could sell those, buy some supplies. Posy's birthday is coming up and I would love to be able to buy some proper white flour so that my mother can make pancakes for her. They're not quite the same with tesserae grain."

I smile slightly, both endeared by his desire to make his sister's birthday special and sad that something as simple as pancakes can be such a tricky thing to bring about.

"Sure," I nod. "Which way do you want to go?"

Following his lead we head deeper into the woods, keeping eyes and ears open for anything that might make for a good catch. For the following hour and a half we trudge through the forest and check up on Gale's snares, gather a bit of willow bark and try to bring down any animal we can trade at the Hob. Gale manages to shoot a squirrel and I fell two but aside from that we're all out of luck.

"Seems like those birds and these three guys were the only animals out and about today," says Gale, squinting as he looks up at the sun above. "Maybe they all spread the word?"

"I have to go," I tell him, stuffing my bird into my game bag. "I'm running late."

"Late? For what?" He's got a crooked smile on his face as he studies me, picking the three squirrels up by their tails.

"Peeta's coming over today. We've got some unfinished work to do before we hand in the next part of the project tomorrow." I purposely avoid looking at Gale, having a sneaking suspicion that the look on his face will not be one of approval. I don't want to get annoyed with him right now so it's easier to just not meet his eyes. "He's supposed to come over at ten and he's quite punctual."

"Oh I see," says Gale, his voice sounding strained. "My one day a week off from the mines and my girlfriend has better things to do than spend time with me?"

"I have spent time with you today," I point out. I give him a quick look as I throw the bag over my shoulder. "I'm sorry Gale, but you know the project is important. It's a big part of my grade this year and I would very much like to get a job outside of the mines and in order to do that I need good grades."

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, looking displeased but also a little conflicted. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, stuffing the dead squirrels into his own game bag.

"Yeah, Catnip, I know," he says with a sigh. "I can't help but feel disappointed, though. I spend all week longing for this day and…"

He doesn't finish the sentence but I think I understand. I walk up to him and place my hands on his shoulders, looking into his eyes.

"Listen, why don't I come by this afternoon? We could go for a walk, or something. Just the two of us."

He nods and leans in for a quick kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be much more Peeta in the next chapter, I promise! And probably not all that much Gale.
> 
> As a side-note, I wish I knew the first thing about hunting and what kind of animals Katniss and Gale might be bringing down, because it seems like all I have them hunting is turkeys, rabbits, squirrels and occasionally fishing. I suppose they could fell a deer at some point, and during summer they could kill a snake or two, but I'm starting to feel like any scene that mentions them hunting is getting repetitive. So my apologies for not putting enough effort into research!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter pretty much wrote itself. It's been a while since I wrote a chapter for this story with this much Katniss/Peeta interaction and I didn't even realize how much I've missed it. Hope you'll enjoy!

When I step through my front door it's fifteen minutes past ten and I'm not the least bit surprised to see Peeta's jacket hanging together with Prim's on the coatrack. I feel ashamed at being late, hastily shrugging out of my father's hunting jacket and moving to the kitchen to hand today's kill over to my mother so that I can concentrate on Peeta and our school work. I find the kitchen empty of people but Peeta's backpack sits on the same chair he had it on last time. My brow furrows with confusion but then I hear voices from the sitting room. Peeta's and Prim's. I set the game bag down on the kitchen counter and hurry to join them, the greeting dying on my lips when I step into the room and see them.

"I never thought of using a stick this way before!" Prim chirps, oblivious to my entrance and perhaps even unaware that I've come home in the first place. She's standing next to Peeta, holding in her hand a half-metre long stick with a long string tied to it. On the other end of the string is a bit of balled-up paper. I recognize the string and the paper as one of her makeshift toys for Buttercup but the stick is, as her words also implied, new.

"He seems to approve," says Peeta, nodding to Buttercup who is meowing at Prim's feet, eyes glued to the familiar toy.

"He certainly does," laughs Prim. She moves the toy around and Buttercup chases it, though not quite as passionately as he goes after the light spot from the flashlight when I try to keep us entertained during stormy weathers.

Peeta's eyes leave Prim and the cat and land on me, his face instantly lighting up in a wide smile. The kind of smile I can't resist returning with a smile of my own.

"Hey!" he says, his tone warm and friendly. I'm impressed with how he sounds completely genuine, not like he's just trying to be friendly despite me not even being home when he arrived.

"Hi," I reply, trying my best to sound as friendly as he does. The smile is still on my lips but I feel a little bashful. "I'm sorry, Peeta. I apologise for not being here when we said we would meet up. I got held up. It's really rude and I'm sorry."

"Oh don't worry about it," he says. "Prim here was kind enough to let me in anyway and we've been trying to stimulate young Buttercup's mind. Got to keep him sharp if he's going to be our protection against vermin."

" _Young_ Buttercup?" I reply dryly, though still smiling as I walk closer. "He must be the cat equivalent of about seventy."

"He is not," protests Prim, scowling at me. "He may not be as young and spry as he once was but he's no senior citizen." She bites her bottom lip and gives me a look I well recognize. A longing kind of look. "So did you… have any luck today?"

"Yeah," I tell her with a nod. "But where's Mother? I was hoping she could take care of the game so Peeta and I could get to work."

"She's over at Mrs. Spencer's house, helping her manage her nausea," Prim explains. Mrs. Spencer is one of many pregnant women who come to our door hoping that our mother will have remedies for the seemingly endless number of downsides to being with child. "She should be home in about half an hour."

"Will the meat hold?" asks Peeta. "It's alright if you want to tend to it otherwise. I can wait. I've got Buttercup here to keep me company, not to mention my pretend sister-in-law."

Prim giggles and I can't help but look from one of them to the other, wondering what kind of things the two of them might talk about when I'm not in the room. I'm pleased that they seem to have no trouble getting along but I vividly recall Prim's earlier remarks on finding Peeta attractive and even though I trust him not to do anything inappropriate I'm not quite as sure that she wouldn't do or say something that she'll find embarrassing later on.

"Why don't I just put it in the refrigerator box for now?" I say. "Then Mother can prepare it when she gets back."

Peeta shrugs and then looks surprised as Prim hands the stick over to him.

"I want to see what you caught!" she exclaims. She looks hungry and it hurts my heart.

"I'll be right back," I tell Peeta.

"Take your time," he says. Then he yelps. "Ow, kitty, claw the toy, not me!"

With Prim at my heels I head back for the kitchen and walk up to the counter and my game bag. Normally Prim doesn't want to see the dead animals I bring home. I quickly realize she's got other things on her mind besides the promise of a good meal as I've barely lifted the bird out from the bag before she steps closer to me and lowers her voice.

"Katniss I like this friend of yours." I nearly drop the bird, instantly worried that my baby sister might be developing a crush on my project partner – a boy four years her senior. She notices my wide eyes and quickly shakes her head, placing a hand on my arm. "No, not like that. Well, maybe, possibly, a few years from now but he's a little old for me now I think."

"Yeah," I manage, my mouth feeling strangely dry. I keep my eyes locked on Prim while I open the small refrigerator box and place the bird inside.

"I mean as a friend for you. As someone who comes over and spends time here. He's nice. Really nice."

"Did he bring cookies this time too?" I can't help but ask.

"No," answers Prim with a small giggle. "But just look what he did for Buttercup!"

"Prim, he tied a piece of string to a stick," I point out, feeling a bit placated but not entirely. If her main issue with him right now is that he's four years older than her then she might very well develop that crush on him anyway in a year or two when that kind of age gap doesn't seem problematic anymore. Especially if him and I were to become friends and he and Prim would be around each other on a regular basis.

"He really likes _you_ ," she says, almost as if she understands what I'm thinking.

"We get along," I answer evasively.

"You should consider keeping him around." She gives me a pointed look. "As a friend. It's not like you could ever have too many. And he's nice and polite and you seem to be fairly comfortable in his company, which I don't see with everybody. What harm can it do you to hang out with him?"

The response that immediately comes to mind is Gale. He would most certainly mind if I became friends with Peeta Mellark. He's got enough of an issue with Madge; a merchant _boy_ would not be popular in his book. He's already displeased with Peeta coming over for school work.

"He is nice," I say to Prim. I grab my game bag and hand it to her, to be put away in its proper place. "And we do get along. But we are quite different with hardly anything in common and he lives in town and I live here. Once school is over we won't see each other much anymore. He'll be busy working at the bakery full-time and I…" An unpleasant shiver runs through me. "I will probably be down in the mines six days a week."

That puts an end to the conversation. Prim is no more fond of the idea of me going down into the mines than I am but we both know it's a very likely prospect. She nods slightly, kisses my cheek and leaves the kitchen to put my game bag away. I head back to the sitting room to tell Peeta I'm finally ready to get to work, feeling a little funny after the brief talk with Prim. There is a part of me that is beginning to realize I might miss Peeta's company when this project is over. However I have no illusions that we will remain friends. We're from different parts of the district and in District 12 that's usually all it takes for two adult people not to become closely acquainted. Truth be told I'm not even convinced I will still be spending time with Madge once school ends, so striking up a friendship with Peeta that lasts past graduation seems highly unlikely.

When I reach the sitting room I stop by the couch and observe him in silence for a minute. He looks up when I walk into the room and gives me a brief smile but his attention is mostly on Buttercup. Peeta is down on the floor, sitting next to the ragged rug which he has lifted up to place the toy underneath. I watch as he slowly pulls the stick towards himself, causing the piece of balled-up paper to move closer to the rug on the other end. Buttercup's eyes are glued to the paper ball, his pupils so dilated that his eyes look black, his whole body posed to pounce, his tail wagging slowly from side to side. The paper ball disappears underneath the rug and Buttercup promptly goes insane. He dives on the spot where the piece of paper disappeared and attacks it with ferocity, flipping over on his side and using his hind legs to kick the rug repeatedly, as if that would kill the paper ball. Peeta laughs but I roll my eyes, rarely finding anything that cat does amusing.

"Cats are idiots," I snort.

"Are we ready to get started?" Peeta asks through his chuckles.

"Unless you think Buttercup might disapprove."

"Eh," he shrugs, getting up on his feet. "I like you better than the cat so if he forces me to choose he'll be on the losing side." I feel my cheeks flush but before I can think too much about what he just said he casts a look at Buttercup over his shoulder. "Besides, I'm not sure your pet knows I'm still here."

I snort, giving him a death stare equal to what Buttercup seems to be giving to that ball of paper, which he indeed is focusing on completely.

"That mangy old thing is _not_ my pet," I argue vehemently.

"Four-legged roommate?" he suggests. He raises an eyebrow in a conspiratorial manner and gives me a look like he's very intrigued. "Arch-nemesis?"

I can't help but laugh a little and shake my head at him. I nod towards the kitchen and he follows me there, seeming in bright spirits for someone who has a whole day of struggling with an essay ahead of him. He walks straight up to the chair he sat on last time and puts his hands on the back of it, his fingers tapping the wood lightly.

"Ready to get to work?" I ask.

"Yup, sure am. I hope you don't mind that I put my things in here while I waited."

"Of course not. Please, have a seat." I pull out my own chair but then pause. "Would you like something? Something to drink?"

"Uhm, some water might be nice," he says, pulling out his chair and sitting down.

I nod and smile slightly, relieved that he didn't ask for anything that we don't have at home.

"Do you want ice?" I ask, opening the kitchen cabinet to get two glasses. At least that much I can easily offer a guest.

"No thanks," he answers, opening his backpack and beginning to take out all the things he might need. "So, hey, did you have a lot of luck figuring everything out?" He looks up at me through his bangs and our eyes meet briefly before I turn my attention back to the pitcher I'm filling up with water. "All your values and beliefs and everything you want to pass on to our little-"

"Call our imaginary baby Cookie Crisp one more time and I'll spend the next twelve chemistry classes flinging stuff at you from across the classroom!" I warn, turning the faucet off. "May I remind you I have excellent aim."

"Alright, I won't," he laughs. "But we do need to come up with a name." I hand him a glass and start filling it up. "Thank you."

"We don't even know what they see us having yet," I point out. Coming up with one name is difficult enough, never mind two. I set the pitcher down on the table and take my seat, putting a glass down in front of me but not bothering to fill it up with water yet.

"That is true. We could, I suppose, say that we want to wait until we see the kid before naming it. Buy us some more time before we have to find a name."

"Do people actually do that?" I question. "Nine months is a long time. Plenty of time to think of a name for each gender."

"My parents did that with me," shrugs Peeta. "Of course, they had a _girl's_ name picked out already but I turned out to be a bit less feminine than expected."

"More than just a little bit," I say with a small smile. Peeta grins and I look away for a second, feeling a bit embarrassed when I realize what I just implied. I hark and try to act like I said nothing odd at all. "What was the name?"

He barely misses a beat in answering.

"Cookie Crisp."

"Oh come on," I snort playfully.

"I'm not telling you," he insists, taking a drink of water from his glass. "The decidedly female name they referred to me by for the larger part of nine months is kind of a personal detail. You're not privy to it."

"So you don't want to name our fiction baby thusly if it turns out to be a girl?"

"I most certainly do not."

"Pity," I say with a smirk.

"Be nice, or I might take these back home with me." He reaches inside his backpack, takes out a paper bag from the bakery and tosses it to me. I'm so surprised I almost don't catch it. Prim said he hadn't brought anything! Not sure how to react I look down at the bag, feel it's weight and momentarily dislike him. Whatever is inside the bag it's undoubtedly something I would very much like to have but I feel uncomfortable accepting it. I don't like that he puts me in this position, again.

"Peeta…"

"Hey, no refusals!" He holds up his hands. "Compliments of my father. He will refuse to take no for an answer."

"Peeta you cannot keep bringing me things from the bakery when you come here," I say, my tone leaving no room to guess whether or not I'm serious.

"You mean you see us spending a lot of time working here?" he asks, somehow making it sound like an invitation for something far more fun and interesting than schoolwork. It makes me feel even more uncomfortable. I set the bag down on the table, most definitely not wanting to open it but feeling it would be rude not to.

"I'm serious, Peeta. I appreciate the gesture, truly. But it's too much. I know how much bakery goods are worth. I can't repay it and that makes me feel… Well, I can't say I like it."

"They are from my father," says Peeta disarmingly. "So don't you worry about it, okay?"

My eyes study the bag and my fingers graze its surface. I bite my bottom lip, feeling very awkward but deciding that I might as well be frank with him about this. Besides, since we're working on this project together he could benefit from knowing this. And we are meeting up right now to talk about values, aren't we?

"I think you should know," I say slowly. "I don't feel comfortable accepting-"

"Charity?" he cuts me off. "That's not what this is. Katniss… It's just a little something my father sent along, alright? It's not charity, it's good manners. It would be considered rude in town not to do it."

"Well…" I say, struggling with conflicting emotions. I can imagine the look on Prim's face when she learns of whatever is in the bag and I very much want to see that look for real. And I don't want to be rude and appear ungrateful. With my lower lip caught between my teeth I look up and meet Peeta's eyes. He looks calm and kind. I doubt he will accept it if I try to give him the bag back. "Just… Tell your father that it's fine, he doesn't need to send anything with you next time. If there is a next time." I force half a smile. "But also tell him thanks. It's very kind of him." I remember the black eye Peeta sported after the last time he came over here to do school work. I wonder how much of what he just said is a lie. "Very kind of you both."

"We aim to please," replies Peeta with a shrug that doesn't seem quite as casual as he intended. He nods at the bag. "You should look inside. It's really not _that_ much to have a discussion about."

I unfold the top of the bag that's been carefully rolled shut and I reach inside it, pulling out a round cookie roughly two thirds of a decimetre in diameter. Instantly I notice that it's actually two cookies held together with what looks like jam or marmalade. The cookies are a pale yellow colour and have been covered in what looks like sugar but smells like cinnamon. I look up at Peeta, resisting the urge to bring the cookie closer to my face and sniff it.

"What are they?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.

"They're called sister cookies." He has a self-satisfied smirk on his face that leaves no doubt in my mind that even if his father made the decision to send along treats it was Peeta who picked them out. "Because of the two cookies making up the whole, see?"

I study the cookie carefully, trying to make up my mind if I'm glad that he chose to bring us treats that are small and thus not as big of a gift or if I should be uncomfortable because the cookies might be exclusive and thus have a higher value. I am in no way qualified to determine how expensive the ingredients might be and after about half a minute I make up my mind to believe they are fairly cheap to make because of their size, thus making it a bit less difficult to accept them.

"Thank you," I tell Peeta again. "I'm sure Prim will be thrilled."

"I hope you will like them, too," he replies, his frankness surprising me a bit.

"Well…" I say, putting the cookie back into the bag and rolling the top down again. "I will put these aside and we can get to work, then."

"Perfect."

I rise and walk over to the counter, setting the bag down carefully. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure Peeta isn't looking I then stick my fingers in my mouth, licking off the sugar and cinnamon that got on my fingertips when I held the cookie. Despite myself I smile at the taste. The moment lasts only a few seconds, then I wipe my fingers on my pants as casually as possible and hurry back to the table. I act as if nothing odd went on just now but Peeta looks like he can barely contain a smirk, though he had his back to me when I tasted the sweets on my fingertips so I don't know how he would know about it.

"Right, then," I say. "Values, beliefs, philosophies. What do we want our little rascal to grow up believing?" I can't help scoffing and shaking my head a bit. "Honestly Peeta, I cannot believe I'm sitting here trying to write up something about how I would raise a child. It's _never_ crossed my mind that someday I would. And I won't."

"Too bad your fictional husband is just too damn virile," jokes Peeta with a crooked grin and a glint in his eye.

"Really, now?" I open a notebook and grab a pencil. "So do you want to do it same as last time? I write down what we brainstorm and you write down the actual thing when we piece it together?"

"Yeah, works for me."

I nod and begin by writing down that we won't use physical punishments, something I don't feel we need to mention out loud just yet since we've already agreed on it. Peeta brings up a couple of things he's thought of and I add them to my list together with one of my own. A moment's lull then falls between us and I hear Peeta tapping his pencil against his teeth. I look up and find him studying me with a somewhat nonplussed expression.

"Can I ask you a question?" he says, his pencil stilling. "It's a real personal one so I understand it if you feel it's none of my damn business."

"Well…" I say hesitantly. "I suppose you're free to ask whatever you want but whether or not I'll _answer_ …" I put my pencil down and tilt my head as I look at him. "But why do you want to ask me something if you think I might find it too personal?"

"Because you fascinate me and I'm curious," he says bluntly.

"Oh." How does one respond to something like that? "Well… What is the question?"

"I was curious…" he says, hesitating slightly before he asks. "How does Gale feel about all this? I don't mean the project, I mean… As I said I know it's absolutely none of my business and you don't have to answer if you're not comfortable about it but… Well, I suppose it makes me wonder. I don't know the guy, so…"

"Peeta," I say, finding his slightly nervous rambling tone to be endearing enough that I don't feel offended by the implied question. "Are you asking me what Gale thinks about my determination to never have kids?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I am."

Even though I figured out the question before he had asked it I feel my cheeks flush and I avert my eyes, wondering what on earth to answer. I suppose I don't mind answering about my own thoughts and feelings but this pertains to Gale and Peeta doesn't know him. He's right, it is none of his business. Yet I just spoke his question out loud for him so it seems odd not to answer it.

"I…" I begin, fumbling for words.

"Katniss, I'm sorry, forget that I asked." I look at Peeta and he seems distressed at my reaction. His hand comes up and rubs the back of his neck and he cringes. "I knew I was being impertinent to ask. It's really, _really_ none of my business. Especially when I don't even know Gale."

"It's alright, Peeta," I say. "Gale knows where I stand." At least that much is true and something I can easily reveal.

"Still, it was incredibly rude of me to ask," says Peeta, his fingers beginning to play with his pencil against the table in a nervous fashion. "My mother would be mortified if she knew I… Forgive me. It was inappropriate and nosy and I don't know what came over me."

"Don't worry about it," I say gently. His flustered behaviour somehow manages to make me feel okay about it. "I'm not offended or anything. Seriously, it's fine."

There's a pause, neither of us speaking for over a minute. Despite what just transpired the silence is not uncomfortable.

"You're really lucky, you know," he then says, a distant, contemplative expression on his face as his eyes trail the pencil he's playing with, his fingers sliding all the way down its length then turning it over so that his fingers are at the top, sliding them back down again, and repeat, over and over.

"How do you mean?" I ask.

He doesn't answer for almost half a minute, his eyes seeming nearly transfixed with his fingers' movements with the pencil against the table.

"I just… want to experience it too, someday. You know?" I'm about to ask what he means but he stops playing his little pencil game, enveloping the pencil in his fist and looking out the window instead. "To be in love with someone and have that love returned. It seems… almost unobtainable."

"But you've had girlfriends," I say, trying to follow his train of thought.

"Yeah but it was never like that. Never real _love_. We liked each other, had crushes I guess, but it was all more… _wanting_ to be in love than actually _being_ in love. Like playing at relationships. I mean, my longest relationship lasted all of five months. That's nothing. What I'm talking about is real, genuine love." He looks at me and the expression in his pretty blue eyes makes me feel sad, like I want to help him. But I don't know how. "Really, think of what a rarity it is. How… exclusive a thing you have with Gale. It's almost like I can't believe so many people actually get to experience it."

"Peeta, I think you're building this up to more than it actually is," I say gently.

"No I think I'm not even close, actually. Think about it. Really _think_ about it. To not only fall hopelessly in love with another person but for that person to actually feel the same way about you? It seems like a one in a billion thing! A lot of people never get to have that blessing." He swallows, looks away. "If I ever got to experience that… I would hold on to that woman for dear life. I would do anything… _anything_ to be with her. And if I had to make sacrifices, well what could be better to do so for than love?" He shrugs and scoffs, a sound that seems out of place. "It's all I really want. Maybe that sounds pathetic, maybe it sounds naïve. I'm not ashamed of it though."

"Peeta…" I say. "I'm sure you'll find it. You're a great guy." He smiles with no traces of mirth. "You're a loving person," I continue. "I can't imagine a guy like you never falling in love. You're still just eighteen years old. It will happen for you."

"Oh I know I am capable of falling in love," he says. He has shifted in his chair, sitting sideways now, drumming the pencil against the table. His eyes won't meet mine. "That's already happened." At once my interest is awakened. Is he going to tell me who he's talking about? I would never tell anyone else, his secret would stay safe, but I would very much like to know. And when he looks at me again I feel convinced for a brief few seconds that he is about to tell me. But he doesn't. "The problem is… The rarity is…" He lets out a quick, dismal chuckle. "I have yet to fall in love with a girl who loves me back."

"Well…" I say after a few seconds of silence, beginning to feel awkward all of a sudden. Perhaps I'm not so comfortable after all knowing this much about Peeta's emotional life. "Maybe she does feel it back, and you just don't know it?"

"No," he says. "She doesn't feel it back. No doubt about it."

"Well… Her loss."

He sighs, shakes his head.

"Thanks, but that's just not true."

An awkward silence stretches out between us.

"I don't know what else to say, Peeta," I say, needing the silence to be broken.

"You don't have to say anything." He moves in his chair so that he sits facing me again. He puts the pencil down, harks and reaches for his notebook. "I apologise. I got side-tracked. I shouldn't have said all of that and I'm sorry." He chortles mirthlessly. "Man, I'm on quite the roll, aren't I?"

"You're fine," I assure him softly.

"Well, anyway," he says and harks again. "We should get back to it."

"We should," I nod. I pick up my pencil and make myself focus. I think to myself that one of the values I want to impart on our fictional child is to be self-sufficient. I open my mouth to relay this to Peeta but to my own surprise something else comes out of my mouth instead. "Maybe you just… put too much stock in love."

He looks up at me with an expression on his face like I just proclaimed my excitement of the Hunger Games.

"Excuse me?" he says, sounding utterly bewildered.

"Maybe… finding love isn't _that_ big a deal." I wish I had his way with words so that I could properly elaborate. I don't like the thought that he should feel like his life is worth nothing if he doesn't find that love he's talking about. I don't like the thought of him missing the good things in front of him because he's hung up on something he feels he might never obtain. Only I don't know how to express this to him and what I manage to say sounds far less worth hearing. "There are so many other things in life that matter… Maybe finding mutual love isn't as spectacular as you might imagine it to be."

"That's easy for you to say," he mutters, making a face as he doodles on the margins of his notebook. "No offense. But you've found it, so…"

I don't know what else to say. I don't believe I have found it, not the kind of romance Peeta is describing, but the nature of my relationship with Gale is not something I am willing to discuss with my project partner.

"I have another thing I want to add to our paper," I say, awkwardly bringing us back on track. He looks up at me briefly and pulls the corners of his mouth upward for a second or two but it's clear he's not actually smiling. I could kick myself for having continued the talk of love. "Our fictional baby should learn how to survive, in case anything should happen to us while the kid is little."

Peeta's brow slowly furrows as he takes in what I'm saying. He nods slowly, contemplatively, and looks up at me. Thankfully he now looks less troubled by our previous topic of conversation.

"I take it you don't mean knowing how to pay bills or fix a broken sink?"

"No," I acknowledge with a nod. I'm not sure how much we should write down in a formal essay about the things I actually have in mind. We can't very well talk about teaching the child to hunt and gather in the woods.

"Yeah, that's good," says Peeta, even though I haven't actually specified what things I'm talking about. "Write it down."

We come up with a couple more things we want to include and then get to work actually penning the essay. Slowly but steadily the atmosphere between us returns to normal, with no more talk of our real love lives or anything of that nature. We have no great laughing spell like last time Peeta was here but after about an hour he starts to crack jokes and to my surprise I actually find some of them funny. It's long and gruelling work to piece our essay together but somehow we get it done, roughly an hour to spare before dinner.

"Great work today, Katniss," says Peeta as he begins to pack up his things. "Just out of curiosity… Do you want to read through it one last time before I hand it in tomorrow morning?"

"I don't think there's time for that. It's due first thing in the morning. I trust you to transcribe it just as we wrote it."

"Your trust warms a poor baker-boy's heart," he says dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. I roll my eyes and chuckle at his antics. "Anyway, I should get going. Thanks for agreeing to postpone the work and give us both some time to think." He stands up and closes his backpack. "It ate in to our Sunday completely but I think it was worth it."

"Yeah," I nod. I slowly rise to my feet as well. "Yeah, and good job today. Really."

"Wasn't that difficult, in the end," he smiles gently. "Now that it's written I can admit to you that I was a little bit worried that we might end up arguing and hardly agreeing on anything. I remember when Scotti wrote an essay similar to this during his project. I have never heard my brother argue with anyone that much. Even my mother kept her distance."

I chuckle but a strange feeling comes over me at his words. He's right. We have agreed on quite a lot and the parts where we've disagreed it's been easy enough to reach a compromise. I've always viewed Peeta and me as very different people but we seem to see eye to eye on a lot of issues – important issues, some of the things that matter to us the most. It's odd but not unpleasant.

"Be sure to thank your mother for letting me come here and occupy her kitchen for hours," says Peeta, moving from the table and over towards the door.

"Oh we're the ones who should be thanking you," I say, following behind him. We share a brief look and he smiles slightly and nods, acknowledging what I'm referring to but letting it stay unspoken. While be begins to put on his outerwear I can hear Prim's voice in the sitting room as she explains the new cat toy to our mother, and Mother's exhausted voice replying. I hope they are so wrapped up in Buttercup's frolics that they don't notice that Peeta is leaving. I don't want the farewell committee that we had last time he was here. "Listen, are you _sure_ you're fine doing the transcribing?"

"Positive," he says, thanking me as I hand him his scarf. "It will be fine."

"Okay."

He finishes putting his outerwear on and we stand there for a minute, looking at one another in comfortable silence. It's gotten dark out but the weather is still good, if a little bit cold. I really think he should get himself a hat but he doesn't seem to care that he doesn't have one. I'm curious though to know what he looks like when you can't see his curly hair framing his face.

"Thank you for today, Katniss," he finally says, reaching for the doorknob. "It's been a pleasure, as always. And I will see you tomorrow, and we'll find out what lies in store for us next in our fictional marriage."

"See you then," I say. I don't know why but for a second I get the crazy feeling that he might lean in and kiss me on the cheek before he goes, and to my own surprise I realize I wouldn't mind it if he did. But of course he doesn't. I don't know what possessed me to believe that he might in the first place. He bids me farewell, opens the door and is on his way. I close the door behind him and smile faintly to myself, hurrying to the kitchen to bring the cookies to the sitting room so I can show my family.

* * *

"Just when you think this project couldn't get any dumber!"

Peeta tilts his head and gives me a confused look at my declaration. It's Monday afternoon, I've just opened the envelope to our latest part of the scenario and my irritation is at an all-time high with this assignment.

"What does it say?" he asks. "Do you give fake birth to a puppy, or something?"

"I can't work!" I say angrily, tossing the papers on the table.

"Huh?" He reaches for the papers and picks them up, still with a confused frown on his face.

"Yeah, says so right there. Apparently pregnancy means that once you can _see_ that there's a baby in there I am no longer able-bodied and capable of contributing to the household. I hope you like imaginative starvation because that's where we're heading."

"Beats actual starvation…" mumbles Peeta under his breath. He eyes through the first paragraphs, detailing how we're going to have to do more _calculations_ now and try to find a way to make a budget hold as our income is now shrinking down to just what Peeta brings home. "They're probably just trying to rile us up."

"It's ridiculous and I won't accept it," I grumble, crossing my arms. "I can't even remember what job I took but I'm sure I can do it even with a protruding belly! I didn't take a job in the freaking mines! This is nonsense, Peeta. Irritating, offensive _nonsense_!"

"I hear you," he says, sounding much calmer than me but not exactly thrilled. "You manage the shoemaker's storefront. I agree, that should be easy enough to do until very late in a pregnancy. Especially since both the job and the gravidness are _pretend_. Want to hear what else do they throw at us this time?"

"I don't care, honestly," I gripe. This latest development has put me in a surprisingly bad mood. What do they expect me to do all day if I can't be at work? I know this is all make-believe but it's supposed to be rooted in reality. It's supposed to have plausibility. I am aware that some women have difficult pregnancies and are unable to work throughout but I'm also aware that a lot of women force themselves to work despite the risk to themselves and their unborn babies. Money has to come from somewhere and few people in this district have the luxury of simply taking it easy for months on end. I look at Peeta and notice that he's got a very thoughtful expression on his face. "What? What are you thinking?"

"This probably sounds a bit crazy…" he begins. "But… What do you say to rebelling a little bit?"

"I'm listening," I say, though truthfully I'm not sure what he means.

"There's a back room in the school library and in it there's an old textbook they don't use anymore. I think in this textbook there are pregnancy facts that could prove our teachers wrong about you not being able to work for more than four months of your pretend pregnancy. After all, they don't say you're struggling with a particularly difficult pregnancy. Maybe that was the idea but they didn't actually put it down in writing. It's a loop-hole and I say we take advantage of it."

"You have my attention, pretend-husband," I say, my mood getting considerably better. "And you know where this book is?"

He nods and smiles.

"Come along. I'll show you."

* * *

Ten minutes later I find myself inside the small library, scowling as I survey the place and wonder if this was such a good idea. Where is that back room Peeta spoke of? Should we really be spending our time searching for an old textbook? We don't even know what else we have to deal with this time around for the project.

"Come on," says Peeta and takes me by the hand, "it's back here." He leads me past the row of bookshelves to the darkest corner of the small library and for a moment I begin to wonder what this will look like to the others who are here. I didn't know there was anything of note all the way back here but I do know that couples like to sneak away to the narrow rows between the bookshelves in the back and engage in kisses and touches. Peeta has no such thing on his mind, of course, and is all-business but those who don't know us won't know that. "They keep a lot of old textbooks stashed back here in surprisingly sturdy cardboard boxes," he tells me. "Once the shelves fill up they send the boxes to the Capitol and get newer books in return. Not brand new, mind you, but presumably ones that students in the Capitol have grown tired of, or that aren't in good enough shape for their liking anymore."

"And you're sure this book is back here somewhere?" I ask, looking around nervously. There are only a few people in the library and none of them seem to be giving us the time of day, but you never know.

"Yeah." He lets go of my hand and walks up to a door at the end of the narrow passage between the last bookshelf and the concrete wall. The light barely reaches us back here but Peeta seems to know what he's up to. He studies the bookshelf, chooses a spot and places his foot on one of the lower shelves. "I'm going to need you to steady me a bit so the bookshelf and I don't fall over," he says. Nervously I walk up to him, wondering where I'm supposed to steady him exactly. "Just press your hands against my back or something when I climb up, providing counter support."

"You're not going to tell me why you're climbing the furniture?" I ask, looking around nervously. "Miss Dunhill might spot us, you know, and she won't be happy if she does."

He grabs a shelf with both hands as far up as he can reach, turning his head to me and grinning mischievously.

"You're telling me that Katniss Everdeen is afraid of defying authority?"

Without further ado he asks if I'm ready, counts to three and hoists himself up on the shelf. Hastily I place a hand on his back, grab the bookshelf with the other, and using my foot as leverage against the wall I try my best to put enough pressure that the bookshelf won't tip over on us. Peeta grunts a little and climbs up a bit until his hand reaches the top shelf where there are no books, just a bunch of old frail boxes, globes, dirty beacons and other assorted pieces of junk. A look of concentration marks his features, though I can't see him all that well in the poor lighting. His hand moves about as if searching for something and then he grins widely.

"Got it. Okay, coming back down. You can move your hand away, please."

With a swift leap he comes back down to the floor, making enough noise that I freeze up, expecting Miss Dunhill to come stomping back here any second to ask what on earth is going on. Peeta seems utterly unaffected, as if he didn't even realize he made so much noise, and looks at the object in his hand. It's a key and he uses it to unlock the door.

"Jeez, Peeta, how do you even know about this?" I ask in a muted tone.

"Coach has us help out lifting the boxes full of books," he explains, giving the door a tug. It seems to be stuck a bit. "We have no good weights or other equipment to build muscle so he gets creative." Another tug opens the door and sends a cloud of dust our way, making us both cough a little. "I admire his creativity. I really do. But I've got to tell you, it gets crowded in here with several guys trying to lift boxes without being in each other's way."

I can imagine. It seems narrow for just the two of us to be in here. I look over my shoulder, still nervous that someone will catch us. I didn't ask him before if we're actually allowed back here and now there's no point.

"Let's just get the textbook and get going," I say, stifling a cough in the bend of my arm.

Peeta reaches inside and finds a light switch. A lonesome lightbulb hanging from a rackety socket in the ceiling casts a dimmed stream of light over the small room. It gives me chills, quite honestly. I don't see how more than five people even fit in here, never mind Peeta's whole wrestling team lifting boxes onto shelves. I follow Peeta inside, the smell of old books and dust much heavier in here than in the rest of the library, and I study the shelves that line all three of the walls that don't have the door. Boxes upon boxes, none of them marked. How are we to know which one we are looking for? My heart sinks. This place gives me the creeps and we're bound to be in here all day.

"Here it is," says Peeta, walking straight up to one of the shelves and with his index finger tapping a dark green cardboard box, practically identical to all the other dark green cardboard boxes on the shelf. "Chauvinistic Capitol propaganda in which Capitol men inform you, dear outer district female, on what it is like to be gravid. How your hormones will annoy your husband, how your capabilities will diminish as each month passes, how you will begin to get scatter-brained, all that good stuff."

"We wanted this book why, again?" I say dryly, stifling another round of coughs.

"Because in-between all the horribly offensive crap they accidentally snuck in some really informative things. Detailed pictures of the baby's growth each month and, most importantly for us, actual facts about how the mother's body changes. Like I said before, we can use it to make our case for why you should work as long as possible into the pregnancy."

"If this book is as informative on that matter as you say," I mutter, walking up to him and eyeing the box, "and if this works and gets us a top grade, you are officially the most creative mind in the entire school." He grins widely but I don't feel like smiling back. "It had better be worth all this trouble, Mellark."

"Here, just lift up the box on top of it and I will pull it out."

"No, I'll do it," I say, eyeing the box as if it contained live snakes.

"No I'll do it," he protests. "These boxes are really heavy."

"Listen, I may not be able to lift a hundred pound bag of flour over my head but I'm not a weakling either," I tell him in a no-nonsense voice. "I don't like it when you do all the work – so far I've just been tagging along. Besides, I feel like I have a beef with this stupid textbook and I want to be the one to get that stupid box."

He eyes me sceptically.

"I don't see how those two are related…" he says after a second or two. "But fine. If you really want to."

"Yeah, yeah," I say, waving dismissively. My eyes are still on the box and with a scowl I try to estimate how much it might weigh. "Are you _sure_ it's this one, though?"

"Positive."

"Yes, but _how_ are you so sure?"

He shrugs, looking surprised by the question.

"Parts of a dustjacket sticks out in the grab-hole, see?" He points to the thing he's talking of. "That disturbing cerise hue is hard to forget."

"Okay," I nod. "Let's get this over with." I grab the box and the one on top of it with one hand each. Peeta's hand lands on my arm and I give him a glare.

"Don't," he says. "At least let me lift up the top one. These are heavy."

But I'm in no mood to listen. This place makes me uncomfortable and that seems to fuel what strength I do possess. I snarl at him to step back and let me handle this and he obediently moves backwards towards the door. I lift the heavy top carton with one hand and give an assertive tug to the box below with my other hand. It won't budge initially and I scowl, determined to move it on my own before my project partner gets the idea into his head that he should offer to help again. He doesn't, however. He stands beside me, leaning against the doorpost, waiting patiently. This, for reasons unknown, frustrates me further and I give a more forceful tug which manages to move the box. In the process of pulling it out from underneath the heavy box on top of it I accidentally scrape the back of my thumb against the cardboard. Hissing at the smarting sensation I wave my hand about quickly, as if that would make the pain disappear, and hand the box over to Peeta.

"Hurt your hand?" he asks, springing to attention.

"Scraped my thumb," I say, letting a sigh slip past my lips. "It's fine."

He wedges the box under his armpit so that its weight rests on his forearm and grabs my thumb with his free hand, studying the half-centimetre long surface that I just scratched. His fingers are dry and slightly calloused but there's something soft about his touch nonetheless. I should worry about the germs that must be covering his hands by now but I suppose I'll be exposed to those germs either way.

"Looks epidermal," he says, sounding so much like my mother and sister that I can't help but give him a look. "What? I know stuff."

"I think I'll live through this horrifying wound," I say dryly, pulling my hand back.

"By the grace of God, you just might," he says, the hint of a smile on his face. "You should put something over that, though. You don't want to get it infected and I don't think our paper needs your blood adorning it."

"It's not _gushing_ blood," I say in a tone that implies he's an idiot, although I know without looking that it is indeed going to bleed a little. I hate wounds like these. They are small and seemingly insignificant, nothing more than a top layer of skin scraped off, but they tend to sting and the area around it tends to be very sensitive to touch and pressure for several days – highly impractical when hunting.

"Humour me," says Peeta, the smile a bit more pronounced now. He nods for me to leave the room and I happily do, letting him turn the light off and lock the door behind us. He puts the key in his pocket. "I keep a small pack of plasters in my backpack. My mother insists we stem all bleeding on our hands as quick as possible so we won't contaminate anything in the bakery." He leads the way back out from this enclosed space, back out to the library proper, and sets the box and his backpack down on the nearest available surface which turns out to be a small table with a reading lamp. "Not that she allows plasters on our hands while we're baking either but…" He doesn't elaborate further, making a concentrated face as he digs to the very bottom of his pack to fish out a small tin box that he opens to reveal a handful of plasters in various sizes. I don't think I've ever seen that many plasters at the same time. "No antibacterial anything, sorry. Now be a good girl and hand me your thumb."

I do as told, feeling funny about the whole situation though I can't pinpoint exactly what it is that's giving me that feeling. His hands graze my skin so lightly that it almost tickles, as if he's suddenly worried that it would be improper to have more skin-on-skin contact. I decide I should say something, if only to feel less odd in the moment.

"It looks epidermal?" I echo his previous words.

He grins crookedly, fastening the plaster over the scrape. It has begun to bleed now and I've got to admit it's not so bad having it covered with something.

"I, uh… went out with Aurora Blackwell for a few months last year. Guess I snapped up a thing or two along the way." I nod slowly. Aurora Blackwell is the daughter of Mason Blackwell, the closest thing townsfolk have to a doctor and surgeon. The peacekeepers jokingly call him 'the medicine man'. Peeta's fingers gently press down on the plaster to make it stick to my skin, an interesting sensation. He gives the back of my hand a light pat. "There – all better." He smiles crookedly, bashfully, and it tugs at something deep in my chest. Then he continues with his story. "I've never seen my mother so pleased with me as she was when she entertained the idea that us dating might lead to a serious relationship."

That I can imagine. I'm not sure if he's exaggerating to make a joke or if he's dead serious, the latter thought being rather depressing, but either way I'm sure his mother would love having one of her boys married into one of the few District 12 families that hold some measure of prestige even in the eyes of the authorities.

"Why only for a few months?" I ask, immediately feeling embarrassed at my words. What business is that of mine? All the same I'm curious. I remember seeing him with her – she stands out in a crowd. She's one of only a few town girls who isn't a blonde, having instead thick, raven hair that falls all the way down to her waist, and striking light-blue eyes to go with it. I recall seeing her and Peeta together in the hallways and during breaks, oftentimes standing with their arms around each other the way many couples at school do. I even recall seeing them heatedly make out one time, though that was not on school property. I have to admit I wondered why they only dated for a short period of time as judging from what I saw they were very hot for each other. Although right now I'm blushing both at the memory of seeing them lip-locked and of having asked Peeta about it in the first place. Could she be the girl he talked about yesterday?

"I don't know," shrugs Peeta, his hand pulling away from mine now that his heroic plaster-placement is done. "We had great chemistry and it made sense to try and see if it could turn into more but it just… didn't, I guess." He scratches the back of his neck and looks a little embarrassed. "We both wanted it to. We had a great time when we were together. But it just never… We cared about each other but we never _fell_ for each other, you know? Then we tried being friends once we split up but it just felt weird."

"I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I prefer the straight question. Most people just gossip and speculate instead of asking. I don't mean about Rora and me specifically but in general, you know?" He shrugs. "Anyway. We tried dating, it didn't evolve into something deeper, I was back to no longer being in my mother's good graces. End of uninteresting story." He puts his backpack on again and lifts up the box. "Shall we get started?"

I nod and follow him to a table with better light but my mind is on the memories of him and Aurora Blackwell and that chemistry he spoke of. They did indeed seem to have a lot of it. The kisses I saw between them, the ones that weren't meant for my eyes, certainly seemed more exciting than anything I've ever done with Gale. Which makes me wonder about what else their relationship entailed. Specifically, is she a woman Peeta Mellark has had sex with? I feel embarrassed for even letting the thought enter my mind, his sexual experiences absolutely not being any of my business, but I can't help myself. Nor can I stop picturing it once the idea is in my head. Peeta and her, lips locked, naked bodies entwined. I'm scandalized by the images my brain can concoct, yet at the same time I feel a little bit sad that I know these images must be very, very tame compared to the real life thing. I honestly don't know what it would look like when two people have sex, other than having a general idea and a basic understanding.

"Does it hurt badly?" asks Peeta, looking at me with concern painted all over his face.

"What?" I ask, trying to understand the question.

"You look… out of sorts…" His eyes go to the plaster on my hand and I quickly move my hand off the table.

"No, it's fine," I insist. "I'm just worried that we forgot to put the key back – you didn't drop it, did you?"

"No it's in my pocket," he says, thankfully buying my lie. He stands and grabs the lid of the box. "No point putting it back until we're done. We need to find a book that isn't falling apart at the seams, or missing pages, or covered in dirt or goo or anything else unpleasant. Then we can put the box, and the key, back in place. Hopefully without any more bloodletting."

He opens the box and we peer inside. A plethora of old textbooks in various states of decay and misuse – some missing parts of the cover, some having fallen apart into several pieces, some so bleached that the cerise hue barely stings your eyes anymore – thrown in in a pell-mell mess. Just as Peeta said the colour is awful. I find a book that has its cover intact, even if half the pages inside have fallen out, and I lift it up to study it. It smells of mildew and the feel of it makes me want to wash my hands as soon as I'm done with it. It's almost hard to believe that even a place like the Capitol could produce something like this and deem it a good cover. It is cerise pink with bright yellow lines that form a woman complete with ample bosom and a pregnant belly in which a foetus is drawn in white. All around the woman are light green bubbles, each with its own bit of text written inside. "The mysteries of womanhood un-mystified," reads one. "The details of conception," reads another. "How to deal with hormones and outbursts," yet another. The whole thing is so tasteless it could border on funny if it wasn't so incredibly sad. I make a face and drop it back into the box, not caring where it falls or if it gets damaged further. These books are all set for destruction anyway.

"This was a terrible idea," I scowl, wiping my hands on my jeans. "What useful information could _possibly_ be written in this abomination?"

"And you make that statement before you've even read inside," notes Peeta with a light chuckle. He picks up a semi-intact book and begins to look through it. "If you think the cover is bad you should get a load of some of the stuff written in it. But like I said, despite their best efforts they actually managed to get some interesting and useful parts in there." He winks at me. "Have faith. We shall surely find a way to save you from the clutches of staying at home all day long."

I find a book that seems to be in one piece and open it to the index at the back, eyeing through it to find something that seems like what we might be looking for. I'm a little bit puzzled by Peeta right now. He acts a bit like he thinks this is a joke and that my reaction to my fictional self not being able to work is silly and amusing, yet he's gone through all this trouble to find a textbook which might help us find a way around it. He's difficult to figure out sometimes.

"Ah, here we go!" he announces, pointing his finger to a spot on the page he's got open. He begins to read aloud. "Stages of pregnancy, how the body changes, what to expect during each month…" His eyes move along the page, surveying its contents. "Yeah, this is what we need. Says a lot of stuff about limitations but also what is good for you when you're pregnant." He looks up at me and wiggles his eyebrow suggestively. "Apparently sex is beneficial throughout the pregnancy. Who knew?" Before I can get too mortified he drops the suggestive look and goes back to being serious. He folds a dog's ear on the page and closes the book. "Let's put the box back and bring this with us so we can read through it in peace and quiet. Grab your copy as well so we don't have to huddle over the same book."

"Are you sure it's alright for us to take the books out?" I ask, nervously looking around to see if Miss Dunhill or a teacher is around.

"They're set to be destroyed anyway," he points out. He opens his backpack and places both our books inside, then fishes out the key from his pocket and hands it to me. "My turn to carry the box. You're on door duty. Don't want you getting hurt again. It's my job to take care of my pregnant project-wife."

He winks at me again, picks up the box and heads for the back room. I follow him hurriedly, eager to put the box back and be out of here. I much prefer working in the assembly room as it is more spacious and doesn't smell of old books and dust. The minute the box is back in its place, the door shut and locked and Peeta has scaled the bookshelf to put the key back in its place I take him by the hand and stride out of there, this time ignoring the looks from a few of our fellow students as we pass them by. Time to get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cookies Peeta brings are actual cookies we make over here. They're probably made elsewhere too but I only know what they're called here. If you're curious, they look like this: https://cdn1.cdnme.se/cdn/6-2/1298628/images/2009/img_8429_56312476.jpg
> 
> I named the librarian Miss Dunhill as a little reference to Stephen King's "11.22.63". Loved the book, not so much the miniseries.
> 
> Regarding the latest project development with Katniss not being "able" to work through most of her pretend-pregnancy, I'm thinking that's just something the teachers added to make things more difficult for them. I should imagine that any woman in District 12 who can work for most of the nine months will do so, with pretty much only coal miners taking leave early.
> 
> I think that's about it for now. Thanks for reading and please leave a comment!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the first and last scenes for this pretty much completed weeks ago but it was way too short. So I ended up completely winging everything in-between, just writing whatever came into mind as I was going along.
> 
> While I was reading through this before posting I realized I had renamed one of the teachers from Stoker to Stokes. Not sure when I started doing that but it's been corrected for this chapter at least.

Peeta has the idea of handing in what we've written about my ability to work through the project pregnancy – our "rebuttal" as he likes to call it – on Tuesday morning. We've never done that before and we don't know if the teachers will appreciate it, but Peeta argues that they might want, or need, to make some changes to the rest of our assignments for this scenario. It's both a little exciting and a little nerve-racking to think about handing it in. I think we did a good job finding facts and writing it up, even if we did have to stay over for thirty minutes and Peeta ended up late for wrestling practice. The textbook we got contained mostly stupidity, as Peeta had said, but there was also instructive and valuable information in there. Despite myself I found it interesting seeing the photographs of unborn babies still in the womb, charts of foetal growth and detailed descriptions of what goes on inside the woman's body.

Not sure what to do with the books once we're finished – there is no way I'm going back to that creepy room after hours just to return a couple of books that are considered junk anyway – I end up taking one copy home with me. Peeta puts the other one in his locker and I pretend I will do the same but actually I'm a bit curious and I want to look through it more once I get home. The book is not entirely about reproduction but about half of it centres around that subject and I find it both interesting and frightening at the same time. I'm surprised that I'm intrigued by it at all, having always had an aversion of sorts towards having babies and always being deeply unsettled and scared when a birthing woman is brought to my mother for help.

I make sure I hide the book carefully so that neither Prim nor Mother will find it. If my mother does she will no doubt take it as a sign that I might be considering making babies with Gale, which will undoubtedly lead to a long talk of the kind that makes me wish for a hole in the earth to open up so that I can jump down into it. And if Prim were to find it… Good grief. She would probably see it as proof that I'm sleeping with Gale, or at least planning to shortly, and just like Mother she might believe I'm starting to change my mind on the subject of motherhood. She would tease me relentlessly, making little remarks for weeks, if not months to come. I definitely don't want that. I keep the book in the bottom of my backpack and only take it out after I've gone to bed. Prim is nervous about a test tomorrow so she's sleeping in our mother's bed tonight, which means I'm undisturbed as I shift to lie closer to the oil lamp for better illumination.

I browse through the pages, studying the pictures much more than the text. The book is in surprisingly good shape aside from its cover, which has half the front missing. There are a few pages torn out in the book but the pages that remain are in decent shape, the text and the pictures clearly visible. There are a few grease stains here and there but I ignore them. Briefly I look at the pictures I saw while working with Peeta earlier, those of the unborn babies, and I wonder how they went about taking these photos. I pause when I come to the chapter about childbirth, perversely curious despite the whole process being nothing but horror and torture and disgust. Honestly I can't for the life of me figure out why it's such a gritty, messy, _deadly_ affair to expel a child from its mother's womb, especially since newborn babies need breastmilk to survive. I fail to comprehend how the pain and danger is beneficial.

Steeling myself, and feeling an odd mixture of frightened curiosity and abject horror at what I might find when I turn the page, I proceed to that chapter. Almost immediately I gasp and recoil, just barely resisting the impulse to slam the book shut and toss it on the floor. Instead I close my eyes and, for good measure, turn my face away. But it's too late. The photographs I saw are already burned on my retinas and after about five minutes of inner debate and turmoil I decide to open my eyes again and take another look, if only to fill in the gaps. What I think I might have seen could actually be worse than what the pictures are really showing. I swallow to try and get rid of the lump in my throat and carefully place my hand over the bottom two pictures. If I'm going to look at these I have to do it one at a time, or I will be sick or actually will slam the book shut. As I proceed I feel a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach, some instinct telling me to run away from this. I tell myself it can't be so bad that I can't look upon it. If I can kill and skin an animal then surely I can view these pictures. The beginning of life can't be more frightening than death.

The three pictures depict the birth of a child in far more detail than I ever wished to see. I'm used to seeing blood and pain, but what I see in the photos is beyond that. As I stare with a mixture of horror and fascination I try to wrap my mind around how the human race has even survived for tens of thousands of years. What I'm seeing not only looks painful but it's got to be hazardous. Why would any woman do that more than once in her life? Those women who seem to have a new baby every other year, how do they stand it?

The last picture is the worst one, unsurprisingly. It depicts a baby halfway out of its mother's body and no matter how many times I'm told that this exact moment is the beauty of childbirth and that the pain is about to be all over I can't accept how unnatural it all looks. I feel so incredibly strongly that I never, ever, _ever_ want to go through this myself. I want to distance myself from anything even related to it. Just the thought of suffering through all of that and then spending the rest of my life watching that child teeter on the brink of starvation, knowing she or he will work down into the mines that took my father, and then possibly hearing an escort call out the child's name at the Reaping makes me sick. The details of pregnancy and birth are horrifying enough in their own right and so is the thought of starvation, the mines and the Hunger Games. I might be strong and brave enough to cope with one if there wasn't the other but in District 12 you get no amnesty. Birth will remain painful and starvation and the Hunger Games will keep looming.

I have had enough of this now and I close the book with enough force that I almost tear another page from it. Quickly I get down on the floor to find my backpack and shove it in there as far down as possible. I might read the actual text in that chapter at some point but not tonight. Those pictures were more than enough for one evening and I regret having looked at them in the first place as I crawl into bed and snuff out the light to go to sleep. If I ever change my mind and agree to getting married I will still not do anything to risk becoming pregnant. Which, I suppose, negates the reason people marry in the first place. What man would agree to be my spouse and never get to have sex? Guys seem so incredibly fond of the activity. And why shouldn't they be? There's no pain in it for them.

With a heavy sigh I turn to my side and close my eyes, trying to go to sleep despite the disturbing images I cannot unsee. I sleep distraughtly, waking in the morning without remembering what I dreamt but remembering the uneasy feeling the dreams gave me. During my sleep I've twisted and turned in my bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, and despite the cold temperature in the room I'm soaked in sweat.

* * *

"Good morning, Katniss." Peeta's voice is soft and low when he greets me, almost like he feels it's too early to talk in a normal tone. Maybe it's just the general mood affecting him. Even though we're surrounded by people all conversations seem a bit subdued, and aside from the occasional slamming of a locker door and the sound of shoes against the hard floor it's almost what I could call quiet. This, of course, won't last past the first class. People are just tired this early in the morning.

"Hey Peeta," I say, closing my locker and clicking the lock into place.

"Sleep okay?" he asks, pressing his books to his chest as he falls in next to me while we walk to our first class.

"Why wouldn't I have slept okay?" I ask defensively.

"I wasn't… accusing you of not having slept well," he says, looking a little taken aback. "I was trying to be polite. Make conversation."

"Oh." Of course. Great, now I feel like an idiot. I blame it on being tired, since I did not, in fact, sleep well.

"You've never made conversation before eight in the morning before?" he asks, a light teasing tone in his voice.

I snort and roll my eyes. I think about all the early mornings I've spent out in the woods with Gale, waiting for the sun to come up and talking about everything and nothing. I'm just about to make a smarting remark about how I'm probably up and talking every morning long before Peeta's gotten out of his warm and comfortable bed before I remember that he lives at a bakery. He might actually be one of the few kids at school who is used to mornings as early as mine.

"I've never understood the point of asking questions like that," I say instead. Together we zig-zag through the crowd in the narrow hallway, our first class being a bit away from our lockers. Every couple of seconds Peeta nods or waves to someone calling out a greeting to him. Nobody is greeting me, save for Peeta a minute or so ago. "People never seem to care about the actual answer," I go on. "You're supposed to say you've slept great, even if you slept terribly. If you say you slept terribly people look uncomfortable and they don't want to hear about it, which is why it's inane to ask the question in the first place."

"Why did you sleep terribly?"

I'm a bit surprised and I stop for a moment, someone bumping into me from behind and cursing at me for having halted in the middle of the hallway like that. I start walking again, studying Peeta with a puzzled scowl. His eyes don't leave mine and he actually does look interested in hearing the answer to his question.

"I didn't sleep terribly," I claim. It's not for him to know that I did. I scowl at him, daring him to challenge it or to try and claim I don't look well-rested. But he shrugs and breaks eye-contact, meeting instead someone else's eyes and giving that person a wave.

"Morning Belle!" he says. "Hey Stork. Are we still on for playing ball this afternoon?" His attention comes back to me and he smiles crookedly. "It's a form of politeness, Katniss," he explains. "Of showing a person that you take an interest in how they are doing and how their day is going."

"By asking a question you clearly don't give a crap what the answer is?"

"What makes you think I don't care what your answer is?"

I fidget, feeling put on the spot, and turn my scowl to the books he's pressing to his chest. Two large textbooks sandwiching a folder. Specifically, our work from yesterday.

"Are you _sure_ it's a good idea to hand this in already?" I grumble. "Mr. Stoker might not appreciate it."

"He will. Or at the very least he won't have a _problem_ with it. You worry too much."

"Maybe you worry too little," I say, sounding contentious and well aware of it. I'm not sure why. I'm especially not sure why I'm directing it at him.

"You know, you're starting to sound like my mother," says Peeta in a none too pleased tone of voice, and I can only barely keep from letting it show how offended I am by that. I shut up quickly and suck my bottom lip into my mouth.

An awkward silence falls between us as we turn a corner and navigate the last stretch of corridor before we reach the classroom. The area is full of people, our classmates waiting for the door to open so we can go inside. Normally the classrooms are open when we arrive in the morning but our first class of the day is physics and they keep the things we use in experiments under lock and key in their cabinets and lock the door to the classroom too, just to be safe. People seem to have woken up more by now and all around us people are laughing and talking, the volume having risen more than just a bit. My eyes search for Madge but I can't find her in the crowd. She might not be here yet. Class does not start for another few minutes.

Peeta leans back against the wall and lets out a tired sigh, his eyes going to the door of the classroom. I wonder if he dislikes physics as much as he dislikes chemistry. Then his eyes go back to me and he's frowning as he studies me, his head slightly tilted.

"So how is your finger?" he asks.

"What?" I go and stand beside him by the wall, not sure I heard him right.

"You know, that dramatic incident yesterday when you acquired a horrific injury and I was able to stem the blood flow and basically saved your life." He looks deep into my eyes as he talks and sounds perfectly serious. I can barely keep from chuckling.

"Well I showed it to my mother when I got home and she said that despite your quack handling of the wound she has every hope that it will heal and we won't end up having to amputate."

He exhales with relief.

"I think after that I should be able to put, like, 'medicine man' or something on my CV," he says, still in a dead serious tone of voice. He gets a dreamlike expression on his face. "I never knew I had so many talents. It almost makes me want to cry a little, you know?"

I'm about to break and start laughing for real, and I think I see on his face that he's about to crack up too. Then he looks at his wristwatch and frowns.

"Mr. Stoker is running late. Hopefully we can still catch him for a minute before class starts."

"It will be fine," I insist, taking a step away from the wall and glancing down the hallway to try and spot our teacher. It's not entirely uncommon for Mr. Stoker to be five or ten minutes late for the first class of the morning. But if one of us students should be late there would be punishment waiting. I struggle to think of something to say to keep the small talk going but at that moment Mr. Stoker finally comes walking around the corner and Peeta springs to action, pressing his books to his chest with one hand and grabbing my hand with the other before he begins nudging his way through the group of people congregated outside the door.

"Alright, alright, people!" says Mr. Stoker in a weary, impatient voice. As if we were the ones who had kept _him_ waiting. "Make way, let me through. I know you're all as eager as I am to delve into the world of physics."

"Mr. Stoker!" cries Peeta, somehow managing to squeeze his way through to come up right next to the teacher, with me just barely able to follow behind him. Physics, along with chemistry and tech, tends to begin with a race to get through the doors to get the best seat. End up on the left side of the classroom and you're close to the cabinets, which means you run the risk of having to set up beakers, crucibles, burners and the like for experiments. End up in the front row and you run the risk of being singled out to help with the run-through of an experiment or get partnered with the teacher. Sit in the back and to the right and you're pretty much left to yourself.

"Good morning, Peeta," says Mr. Stoker, reaching inside his pant pocket for the classroom key. "You seem eager and alert this morning. We're repeating the laws of thermodynamics this week; perhaps you would like to join me at the board and-"

"Actually, can Katniss and I have a word with you before class?" interjects Peeta. I'm surprised that he would interrupt a teacher but I'm guessing he's none too eager to be up by the board functioning as secretary. Mr. Stoker likes to believe that we learn better if one of us does the writing but I seriously question the validity of his hypothesis.

"You and Katniss?" He turns his face and eyes us sceptically, turning the key in the lock. "What in the world would the pair of you have to 'have a word' about at this hour? Did you both accidentally set fire to your homework?"

"No," says Peeta, giving me a confused look. "No, sir, it's… it's not about physics." Mr. Stoker opens the door and immediately people start moving to get in, pushing me forward to get ahead. I scowl and respond by elbowing the people who push me. "It's about the project. The _big_ project."

The teacher stops in the doorway, keeping us all from entering the room. People further back begin to complain loudly, not able to see that it's the teacher who is keeping the rest of us from going inside and finding a good spot.

"You two want to talk to me about the project _now_?" questions Mr. Stoker, peering at us from above his glasses.

"This couldn't have waited, Mellark?" someone complains from behind me.

Peeta looks at me again, seemingly for support, but I have no idea what to say. So I stay quiet. He turns his attention back to the teacher.

"We don't really feel it can wait."

"Go find your seats, Peeta," sighs Mr. Stoker. "We can discuss this _after_ class. It can wait until you've freshened up your knowledge on thermodynamics, can't it?"

He turns and walks inside the classroom, muttering something under his breath about how it's too early in the morning for overachievers. Peeta gives me another puzzled look but walks inside the classroom and heads towards the back. I follow behind him, scowling at the many kids who are practically racing to get to the best seats. One of them steps on my shoelace which unties it, nearly tripping me in the process. I stop and put my backpack down at a table in the middle of the classroom, closer to the right side wall. I bend down to tie my shoelace, thinking rather unpleasant thoughts to myself. Peeta looks disgruntled as he sets his books down next to mine and slumps on a chair.

"Is it too much to ask for the _teacher_ to be on time, so we can have these conversations without making class start late?" he complains under his breath.

"Old Stoker seems about ready to throw in the towel and put an end to his teaching days," I reply, glancing at the tired looking man by the board, yawning as he unscrews the lid of his coffee thermos. "You know, maybe in a year or two he'll actually retire and you can have _his_ teaching job."

"And teach physics?" He looks about as weary as the teacher as he pulls out a chair and sits down. "You'll be not even a little surprised to learn that, as with chemistry, physics is not my strongest subject."

"You would manage."

"I can barely _pass_ it, how do you imagine me being able to _teach_ it?" He makes a face and hides a yawn behind the back of his hand. "Heck, I'm not sure I even understand any of it."

"You talk as if you're barely getting by," I remark. "You shouldn't go around doing a fake modesty act. You're one of the top students in our class. It's really unbecoming."

"I'm flattered that you see me as Super Student," he says dryly, clearly not flattered in the least. "I haven't claimed to be struggling with every class. I'm just much better at humanities, is what I'm saying." He chortles mirthlessly. "And if you don't believe me about my aptitude for physics and chemistry, just ask my brother. Ryean thinks I'm a complete idiot every week when he helps me with my homework."

I'm surprised to hear that his brother helps him with his homework – and on a weekly basis too. Especially since we are seniors now and Ryean has already graduated. I wonder how come he sits down with his younger brother every week to do this. Ryean Mellark has never struck me as the nurturing type.

"Katniss do you intend to stand there all morning, or will you take a seat already so we can get started?"

Mr. Stoker's voice startles me and I look around and find that everyone else is sitting down, and most eyes are on me. I feel myself flush with embarrassment and I search the room to find Madge but Peeta harks and I look over at him instead. With his eyes he signals that I should sit down beside him but I always partner with Madge.

"Katniss?"

The teacher's impatient voice seals the deal and with a scowl and with cheeks still flushing I pull out the chair and sit down with an angry huff, wishing I could disappear. With my elbows resting on the table I lean my brow against my index fingers, hiding as best as I can, feeling embarrassed and in a really foul mood. Peering around the room I see Madge a few rows ahead of me, glancing at me over her shoulder. Somebody else has taken the seat beside her. Of course this all makes sense to me now. I put my bag on the table where Peeta was taking a seat so everyone just assumed I intended to sit there. This left me with no other partner available but him.

"Fantastic…" I mutter.

"Now, if everyone is done finding their seats, actually sitting down in them, and if Monica and Delly can wrap up their rather loud conversation about their braids – fascinating though I'm sure it is – perhaps we can get started." Mr. Stoker sounds even more cantankerous than usual this morning. He's generally quite agreeable but never before nine o'clock in the morning. He takes a large sip from his coffee mug and then sighs, sitting down on the edge of his desk. "Congratulations to you all, we will be taking things quite easy this morning. As I've already said, and as those five or six of you who were actually paying attention thus already know, we'll be repeating the laws of thermodynamics. No real laboratory work today, just some math problems and some such for you to work on in your pairs."

He keeps on talking and I sit back in my chair, not bothering to keep the sullen scowl off my face. I feel out of sorts and to be perfectly honest with myself I feel nervous working with Peeta in physics class. Project hour is one thing, I've gotten used to that and it's a whole other kind of work. Doing physics assignments together just seems like it could get awkward. I don't know how to work together with Peeta for things like that. With Madge I know exactly how to go about it and how we work together but it's uncharted territory with the boy I'm currently sitting next to. Why couldn't I have been more perceptive and made sure to take my seat with Madge? Was it necessary to carry on that conversation with Peeta?

"Yeah, I'd complain too, if I were you." I wasn't expecting to hear Peeta's voice right now and I look up at him. His hands are clasped on top of his open textbook and his eyes are on the teacher but there's no mistaking his soft voice was directed at me.

"What?"

"I just told you I'm bad at physics and now you're stuck doing today's work with me. Not your most strategic move, I must say." He gives me a quick glance and I can tell he's confused. "How come you didn't go sit with Madge?"

I don't know how to respond to that. It would seem obvious to me how come I ended up sitting here. Does he think I chose this seat? If he did, what does that imply? He doesn't make any further comments and I don't say anything else either, deciding to give my full attention to Mr. Stoker and the poor kid he's dragged up to write on the blackboard. From the corner of my eye I see Peeta taking notes throughout the lecture part of the class. This should all be just repetition, as Mr. Stoker said. We covered all of this a few years ago and much of it has been repeated at one point or another. Is Peeta really that terrible at physics or does he just like to give the impression of actively participating?

When the time comes for the math problems to be done I cast a longing look in Madge's direction, but then when Mr. Stoker walks by and hands us the problem sheet I only have to glance at it to realize I'm being ridiculous. After all, what we're being asked to do is just math. With a physics spin, sure, but math is always math at the end of the day, and if it's one thing I've done enough of for the project it's math. And Peeta's no worse at it than I am so I don't see why this should present much of a problem for us. I place the sheet on the table between us and push it closer to him so he can get a good look.

"I'll tell you one thing, it's a good thing I was born in town," sighs Peeta, rummaging through his pencil case. "My livelihood will probably never depend on my capabilities with physics or chemistry." He finds his pencil sharpener and gets to work sharpening both his own and my pencil, though I didn't ask him to. "Then again, people have been mining for thousands of years and I bet back in the days of Julius Caesar they didn't need the zeroth law of thermodynamics to get the job done."

"I bet they weren't mining coal this far below the surface, either," I reply dryly.

"Fair enough." He blows on the desk to get rid of the waste from his sharpening. "So are you as good with this stuff as you are with chemistry?"

"I'm quite sure I'm better than you, at least," I tease.

We manage to get the work done without much trouble, mainly because whenever we disagree on something Peeta instantly defers to me, having apparently no faith whatsoever in his own knowledge on the subject. We're finishing up the last problem when the bell rings and Peeta is up on his feet so fast that I startle, his hand snatching up the project folder before I've even caught up with what he's doing. His hand lands on my shoulder as he passes me by.

"Come on, let's hurry up and talk to him before he heads off to his next class!"

"But we're not done with this problem, yet!" I protest. "We have to hand it in before we can leave!"

"Okay, well, you finish it up, then, and I'll talk to Mr. Stoker!" He's already halfway to the front of the classroom, talking to me over his shoulder. I scowl but secretly don't mind all that much. I feel like a bit of a fool handing this in ahead of schedule with the hopes of getting some changes to our scenario. I think I prefer finishing up the math.

"Splendid…" I mutter to myself as I focus on the equation we had almost solved, knowing I need to get it done as soon as possible or we will both be late for our next class. It's hard to concentrate in the inevitable ruckus that follows the end of a class. I wish our classmates could keep their voices down for once, or better yet, shut up. I'm not the only one still working on the problem sheet so I know I'm not alone in wishing for a bit of consideration but after all these years I know better than to expect it.

Despite the distractions around me I finish the problem, staple all the sheets we've used together, and sign both our names at the top one. Glancing over at Peeta I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. I gather all my things and put them in my backpack but that only takes half a minute or so and Peeta is still talking to the teacher when I'm done. I see him turning a page in the folder and pointing to something, apparently stating our case, something I could never imagine being brave enough to do. Since I really don't want to go up there and join in the discussing, especially since I have a feeling I would just end up standing there anyway, so I begin to slowly gather up Peeta's things as well. I put everything back in his pencil case, one by one, and I collect his two textbooks and his notebook and put them in a neat pile. To my relief, the next time I look over there they seem to be done talking. Peeta nods at Mr. Stoker, smiles and then comes walking back to our table. He's still got the folder in his hands, which confuses me a little since he was smiling as he walked away.

"How did it go?" I ask, making no excuses as to why I didn't come up there and help him out.

"As well as we might have expected," answers Peeta. "He seemed a bit surprised, but once I made our case he agreed to take a look at the stuff we wrote, and if he and the other teachers think we've made a strong enough argument they'll make some changes to the scenario for us."

"You're kidding."

"I rarely kid before breakfast."

"I had breakfast almost two hours ago."

"Well I didn't," he shrugs. "Hey, look at this! You didn't need to get my things ready for me. That was nice of you."

"Peeta. You still have your folder."

"What?" The look he gives me while putting his pencil case into his backpack suggests my words made no sense to him at all. He picks up his books and with one hand presses them to his chest. Why he doesn't simply put them into the backpack as well I'll never know.

"You said you handed Mr. Stoker what we wrote. But you still have your folder with you."

"Well I didn't give him _all_ we've written for this leg," he says, as if I'm an idiot. "I take it you completed the last equation? Thanks a bunch, Katniss, great work. Listen, I've got to run. Need to get to my locker to put these books back and get the ones I need for next class, plus I have to use the bathroom. Great working with you today, though!" He grins at me. "Not quite used to the pleasure of your partnership on a random Tuesday. I wouldn't mind teaming up again some other time, though I suspect you'll stay far away from me in physics class from now on, now that you know my vast limitations. Bye for now, see you next class!"

I don't have a chance at getting a word in so I just stand there and listen and observe. He manages to snatch up our work for the day and drops it off on the teacher's desk on his way out. I shake my head and put my backpack on, leaving the classroom in much less of a hurry than he was in. Since I have everything I need in my backpack for all classes before lunch I head straight for the next classroom. This time I'm going to find Madge and sit down with her before my scatter minded brain lands me with someone else in our class.

* * *

Come Sunday the temperature has risen a little, to the relief of more or less everyone in the district. It's still cold, but -17 degrees is a lot more endurable than -22, especially since it's windless when I leave the house before dawn and trudge my way through the deep snow. I run into Gale where his street intersects the one leading to the Meadow and although neither of us says anything, not wanting to wake up our neighbours on the one morning of the week when they get to sleep in, we share a smile at the pleasant change in temperature.

As soon as we're ducking under the fence and stepping out into the forbidden territory Gale breaks the silence between us, his voice full of happiness and excitement.

"The hunting conditions are perfect on a morning like this, sweet Catnip!" he says, reaching his arms out as if to embrace the surroundings. "It's getting warmer already, and when was the last time you saw the woods look so beautiful in winter? Almost worth giving up my one day of the week where I can sleep until noon – or at least until some sensible time like seven or eight." He grins and slowly spins around in a full circle as he walks. "It's going to be a great year. I can feel it."

"It's only the second week of January," I remind him with a giggle. It's hard not to get caught up in his joviality.

"Which means we have fifty more weeks to go of this bound-to-be-great year."

He waits for me to catch up with him and when I do he wraps his arms around me, giving me a long kiss on the lips after which he rocks us back and forth for a bit. Standing this close I can see that the circles under his eyes are darker than usual. He looks tired, and no doubt he is, for he hasn't had the energy to take walks with me even once this week. I know the midwinter months are particularly dreary down in the mines and with the long hours he works he only gets to see the sun on Sundays. Sometimes during midwinter they hand out vitamin D supplements to some of the miners whose work performance is getting too affected by lack of energy. Ever since Gale graduated and begun his work there I've been especially concerned for him at this time of year but this time around it's not just him I'm worried about. I'm terribly frightened that a year from now it might be me toiling away down there, confined in a claustrophobic, dark and stinking environment and working so hard that I'm too spent to even go for a walk in the afternoon or enjoy doing things with Prim. It's nightmarish and I desperately pray that I will be able to find work elsewhere.

"I hope you're right," I say, suddenly finding I have to force keeping on the smile that came all on its own just moments ago. "I hope it will be a good year."

"Oh I promise you that it will be." He chuckles softly and rubs his nose against mine. "And on top of everything else, it will be the first year we spend all 52 weeks as boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Yeah," I say as he releases me and begins to trudge towards the treeline. "I suppose so…"

We take up our seats in our favourite glade, shivering once we begin sitting still, soon pressing close to one another for warmth. My quiver sits at my feet, stuck down into the snow to keep it standing, and my bow rests against my side. I feel so much better after I've retrieved it from its hiding spot, a comforting familiarity that makes me feel at least a little bit safe despite everything. I look up at Gale and stop myself from asking how his week has been when he yawns big without even covering it up with his hand. I ought to feel guilty that I get to spend my days at school, only nine hours a day, and be relatively warm and enjoy sunlight and the security of not facing possible death every day. Instead of mining coal, breathing in that horrible dust that can slowly and torturously kill a person over ten or fifteen years, I get to educate myself and have frequent breaks and sometimes even have a bit of fun. What stops me from feeling that guilt is knowing that it's all going to be over soon for me as well. What will happen after graduation and once the Hunger Games are over is anyone's guess. Could I be so lucky as to land a job somewhere safe, somewhere in town? The thought crosses my mind that I could perhaps tell potential employers of my determination never to have children and thus never be away on maternity leave. Reality quickly catches up with me before I can get carried away with the idea. I can't tell anyone where I stand on this issue. It could be extremely dangerous if the wrong person found out.

While I've been busy with my thoughts Gale has lifted his thermos from his game bag and now he offers me a mug of steaming hot liquid. I take it gratefully and while I carefully blow on it and wait for it to get cool enough to drink without risking burning my tongue I wonder what Gale thinks of the issue that's gotten me so riled up this week.

"Gale when you did the project, did you have to adjust your budget when you were saddled with babies, because the woman wouldn't be able to work and be pregnant at the same time?" I ask, warming my hands around my mug of silver tea.

"Yeah, probably," he shrugs.

"You don't remember?"

"We only spent two weeks on it, remember?" He smiles at me, in a good mood despite obviously being very tired this morning.

"Two weeks…" My eyebrows raise as I think about it. "Wow, they must have _really_ slimmed it down for you. Or expanded on it like crazy for us." I take a sip of my tea, careful not to burn my tongue.

"Well, to be fair it was two weeks of doing little else _but_ the project. But those essays and stuff you seem to be doing all the time, we didn't have those. Just the one, about how we'd want to raise our children. Other than that…" He shrugs. "How come you're asking?"

"Oh I'm just irritated."

Gale laughs and gives me a nudge with his shoulder.

"The project seems to be having that effect on you more often than not."

"See, it's just that I find it a bit degrading. I'm fictionally pregnant and therefore I can't work anymore after a certain point. What do they mean that I do instead, exactly? Loll about the house all day chasing dust bunnies?"

"I remember how exhausted my mother was in the last couple of months when she was expecting Posy," says Gale. He blows on his mug of tea to cool it some, as I did. "But I don't know, maybe that was just her, and just that pregnancy." He gives me a crooked smile. "I understand it feels frustrating for you. This whole part of the scenario kind of thrust upon you." He takes a sip from his mug, smacking his lips a little. "It must feel particularly pointless since you aren't going to have children for real."

I study him with interest, a smile spreading across my face. The issue of marriage seems to be hanging in the air every so often with us no matter how clear I've made my position but when it comes to motherhood he seems to fully accept my viewpoint and my decision. Acting on a sudden impulse I put the mug down beside me in the snow, then I turn to Gale and cradle his neck with one hand as I lean in and kiss him. I wonder if this is perhaps the first time I've instigated a kiss purely because I want to, and not to make _him_ happy. Either way Gale responds immediately to my kiss, returning it with warmth but with no rush, and it feels easily like my favourite kiss so far.

When it's over I shift closer to him on the log, almost making my bow fall in the process, and rest my cheek on his shoulder, feeling warm and content and reassured. Gale, who has gotten rid of his mug somewhere along the line, wraps his arm around me and holds me close. Something about this moment feels like old times, even though we never sat this way back then, and we of course never kissed. But it's the first time in a while that I feel like we're the way we ought to be again, Katniss and Gale, with no expectations hanging over us. This is exactly how I like things to be, and if being a couple can be incorporated into that this way then maybe this is the right path for us.

"I wouldn't take the project too seriously if I were you, Katniss," says Gale after a minute. "I agree that you not being able to work while pregnant feels exaggerated but it's hardly as if they're gunning for realism anyway."

"What makes you say that?"

"Has there been anything at all so far addressing you, born and raised in the Seam, married to a baker's son? Seam and merchant class ought to have brought about a whole slew of issues and so far you haven't mentioned any."

"Such as?" I sit up straight and cross my arms, scowling at him and ready to launch into a defence of my parents' marriage. "My mother and father were the happiest couple I have ever known, they weren't weighed down my any _issues_ , and-"

He silences me with a kiss, deepening my scowl in the process.

"I'm not talking about issues in the relationship itself," he says. He leans down and picks up his mug again, taking a long sip. I sit quietly, waiting for him to explain and ready to pounce if I hear anything that I feel is criticism of my family. "I'm talking about how the world and our society works, Katniss. Your mother's family, do you even know them?" He knows the answer so he doesn't wait to hear me say it. "People don't look kindly on those who marry out of their social standing."

"Which is absurd!" I say, my feathers much ruffled. "Why should something like that matter, to _anyone_? You can be friends with, and trade with, people from a different part of town, you can go off and spend 'quality time' at the slag heap together, but you can't _marry_? You can't _love_ someone from the other side of town?"

"That's how it is, Catnip." He looks weary but serious and determined. "I don't know, maybe the merchants are afraid that if they start to marry Seam folks they will lose their cushiony life with a steady sizeable income, freedom of the mines and almost always fewer slips in the reaping balls. And maybe the Seam folks are too proud to want to mingle with those who look upon us as lesser people."

"They don't do that," I protest. "That's all in your head, Gale."

"But we _are_ lesser people!" he cries, upset all of a sudden. He rises to his feet without noticing that his mug falls over his game bag and spills the silver tea. "We're scarcely better than slaves."

"Neither are they," I retort. This makes his eyes boggle as he spins around and stares at me.

"Are you _serious_?"

"They may not work in the mines and they may eat slightly better than we do but Gale, they don't exactly live like the people in the Capitol." He scoffs with disbelief at my words and begins to pace. My eyes follow him. It's not often that I contradict him when he goes off on one of his tangents but this one I couldn't simply let lie. It's not aimed at those who oppress us but at those who are in the same situation we are. "Have you ever given a thought to the kind of pressure _they_ live under? If they don't sell enough bread, or shoes, or furniture they won't be able to put food on the table. They _don't_ have a steady income – for them it's all dependent on _others_. And when we graduate we at least know that we have a job waiting for us. It may be the last job I would ever want to have but it's employment and it will keep food on the table and hopefully keep Prim from going behind my back to sign up for tesserae!" I'm not unaware that my voice has risen and I wish Gale would look at me as he paces, but he just shakes his head from time to time and begins to get that thundercloud look about him. I can't be sure he's really _listening_ to the things I have to say but I have to say them anyway. I think of Peeta and Madge, two such sweet and loyal people, and how Peeta in particular has such an uncertain future ahead of him. Gale does not see, and he isn't being fair. "What do you think happens to younger children in a merchant family when they graduate? Huh, Gale? Let me tell you what happens to them. If they're really, really lucky their parents and oldest sibling needs them to help run things at their business. But more often than not they don't have that opportunity, and for those people there is no guaranteed income. They have to hope for someone with another business who needs help, and such jobs are rarely long-term. Or they have to start their very own business, which is near impossible to do, or we wouldn't have just one or two new shops every five years. Their last option is to hope for a job at the school or at the Justice Building and those jobs are not exactly commonplace."

"Actually they can sign up to work in the mines, and have an income starting the next day," argues Gale, looking at me finally. He doesn't sound quite so angry as I had feared but he sounds disdainful, and to me that's worse. "I don't see that happening, ever, so things can't be that bad for them. Let me ask you this, Katniss – do you find it realistic that in this advanced school project of yours a Seam person and a townie marry and they live in town? Apply for – and get – town jobs? You and that blond sissy would be stranded in the Seam in reality, and both of you would work down I the mines."

I have no answer to his last point, in fact I know he's right even though I haven't given it any thought until now, but I object strongly to his characterization of Peeta.

"That blond sissy?" I echo, giving him a look that shows exactly how I feel about that. "Where do you get off on calling him something like that? You don't even know him."

"I know he's spent his entire life in a cushiony house in town, with constant food on the table and thus no need to take out tesserae."

"Honestly, Gale…" I scoff, standing up and grabbing my bow and my quiver. I put them over my shoulder and reach for my game bag. "I would have expected a little more insight from you. I honestly don't know why you seem to think they live the same way Capitol people do, and it seems to be escalating lately."

Realizing that I'm about to leave he suddenly softens, his shoulders slumping and his expression changing into one of weariness and sadness. I don't want to care but I can't help to, and I remain standing there instead of walking off.

"I'm sorry, Catnip," he says pleadingly. "I shouldn't have said that, and I'm sorry. It's not him per se, it's the whole system that angers me. And even though I shouldn't care one iota about your stupid project I have to tell you it bugs me that the thing about a Seam woman marrying a town guy is completely glossed over."

"The point of the project is not to deal with social stigma over who we love, or choose to be with," I say, more calmly than I feel. I put my things down again and sit down with a sigh. "It's about handling finances and relationships and parenthood… I simply don't think they care about how we get paired up, class-wise."

"Perhaps if they _did_ care about it, and actually discussed it with the entire class, it wouldn't be such a stigma," he says, stunning me to silence. He's usually not this idealistic. I can't stop from smiling, glancing up at him with much more warmth.

"Why Gale Hawthorne," I say. "You mean to say you actually think it would be a good thing for us to mingle more with the townies?"

He doesn't seem to find anything amusing, or unordinary, about what he just said. He walks over and bends down to pick up his mug, cleaning it with a fistful of fresh now before putting it in his bag. He doesn't seem to notice that the bag is wet, and beginning to freeze.

"I think Seam people should stick with Seam people and merchant people with other townies… But for those who do fall in love with someone from the opposite group I see no benefit of making them social pariahs among those better off in life, and dumping them in the Seam." He scoffs slightly, refusing to avoid my look. "Life's bad enough as it is for far too many people." Finally he gazes at me. "Though I'm glad you're not a townie."

I can't stop laughter from bubbling up. I give him a light nudge on the arm with my fist and then nod in the direction of one of our tracks in the woods.

"Does this mean you're supportive of my newfound friendship with my fake merchant husband?"

"No," he says curtly.

"Oh come on," I smile, rolling my eyes at his stubbornness. "What is it, Gale? Afraid you might actually _like_ him if you get to know him?" He sighs wearily and I decide not to tease him any further. I suppose it's not what a supportive girlfriend would do following a tiring week in the mines. But as I reach out and take his hand, giving it a squeeze, I can't help but make one final comment on the subject before dropping it entirely. "You know… he is a really nice guy. And life's not easy on him and his family either."

"Am I supposed to feel _sorry_ for him?"

"All I'm asking is that you don't judge."

He sighs heavily, pulls me close and kisses my brow. He then mutters for me to come along and begins walking down the path, cursing under his breath as he takes a bad step and ends up sinking halfway down to his knee in the snow. I follow him in silence, glad that the argument is over for this time, barely remembering how happy I was just a short while ago when he reaffirmed to me that he knows and fully respects my position on having a family. It seems these days the good times are far too often followed by the bad.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, surprise! New update in record time. Actually I haven't even had a chance to read every review from the previous chapter, which is a first for me. I actually had large parts of this chapter written already (wrote it up months ago in an effort to get my mojo back during writer's block) so it was mostly a manner of putting it together, filling in the blanks and making some re-writes so that everything fits. I'm posting it now because I don't know how much time I will have in the weeks to come. 
> 
> Since I haven't had a chance to reply to many reviews from the previous chapter yet, and since some of those I've read are from guests on the site, I thought I should respond to one of the things that I've seen come up in the comments. I can assure you all that this is not going to be a fic where it's a lot of Galeniss and then a happy ending wrap up for Everlark that takes a chapter or two. In fact I have outlines stretching a few years into this particular ficverse and all in all Galeniss is a pretty small part. The only real "threat", as it were, would be if I for one reason or other didn't complete the story. But I have every intention of doing so =).

"Miss Everdeen, Mr. Mellark…" Mr. Stoker's voice is entirely bereft of merriment when he waves us over at the end of the last class before project time. Swallowing nervously but keeping my face neutral I hold up while our classmates hurry out the door to enjoy the brief recess. "A moment of your time before you run along?"

My eyes go to Peeta several rows further down in the classroom, but he doesn't turn to look back at me. He seems unaffected, though, as if it was completely ordinary for him to be asked to stay behind after class. It must be the knowledge of why Mr. Stoker is asking us that keeps him so unbothered. For my own part I'm not so calm, though I make sure to seem so outwardly. I stand by our decision last week, in fact there's a part of me that's come to enjoy having done something different and challenged the assignment, but I don't like getting called out in front of our entire class like that. It brings the kind of attention I would much rather do without.

The classroom quickly clears of students, all of them no doubt eager to make the most of our short break, or to get the best spots in the assembly room. I walk briskly up to the teacher's desk, eager to get this done so we can go work, and to have it be quick so as to minimize gossip. Peeta, of course, takes forever to gather up his things, though he does seem to be doing his best to be quicker about it. He nearly drops the books in his hands when he rushes over to join me and slams into a chair. He always seems to be making noise whenever he moves.

We stand beside each other, facing our stern-faced teacher who slowly opens a drawer and takes out an envelope with what must be the papers we handed in last week and hopefully new instructions for this week. Hopefully it's not a letter of reprimand that I need to take home and have my mother sign. Mr. Stoker holds the envelope out to us, his reproaching eyes travelling from one of us to the other and back, over and over. Then he breaks out into a light laughter, shaking his head at us.

"Well that was interesting," he says. "At least you did the work to back it up. I was hoping I wouldn't have to encounter that particular textbook again but you did well. Go on, take it and get to work with your altered scenario. Enjoy." Peeta takes the envelope, thanks the teacher and grins. I scowl. I don't like the way he said the last word. Mr. Stoker just keeps laughing at the look on my face. "Relax, Miss Everdeen. At least you learned something. My, you are a creative pair, aren't you? To be honest, us faculty members working on this project are rather divided – those of us who look forward to seeing how you will handle the rest of your assignments and those who think you're a real irritating pair. But we can't very well criticize anyone for putting _too much_ time and effort into their schoolwork, can we? Just don't go biting off more than you can chew – your assignments are going to get more demanding as the weeks go by. Now get out of my classroom and get to work."

"Thanks again, Mr. Stoker!" chirps Peeta.

"Thank you, Mr. Stoker," I mumble, pulling the corners of my mouth into a faint smile that probably looks more like a grimace. I follow Peeta out of the room and breathe a sigh of relief that at least that didn't take long.

"Told you it would work, didn't I?" grins Peeta once we're out in the hallway, zig-zagging through the crowd on our way to the assembly hall.

"I'd rather not make that call until we see what our _adjusted scenario_ looks like," I reply with a scowl. "Though I am glad we did it. And it did seem to go well."

He looks at me and gives me a smile in a way that's almost conspiring. Then, without missing a beat, he launches into his standard array of questions about what I did during the weekend, how Buttercup is doing, how I'm doing with whatever other coursework we're currently dealing with. It's odd how he can ask me so many things and yet I rarely feel like he's prying. Maybe it's because he never prods if I don't elaborate. He just shrugs and moves on. He seems to have a never-ending arsenal of queries. I feel bad that I hardly ever ask him anything back, but I can't seem to figure out what to ask. Besides, Peeta volunteers information on his own volition, although it hasn't slipped my notice that he chooses his topics quite deliberately, never giving away anything that's really personal. For instance I still don't know who he spends his free time with on Friday and Saturday evenings. Friends – or a girl?

"Okay then, should we begin?" he asks as we arrive at our table, taking his seat and opening up his backpack to get all his stuff in order.

"I'll open the envelope," I offer as I sit, reaching over and grabbing it from the pile in front of him. It's a shorter distance for me to reach now than it would have been three months ago when we started this. Using Peeta's ruler I get the envelope open and take out the papers we handed in last Tuesday, along with our new instructions. I can see that a lengthy comment has been written in blue ink at the bottom, from the looks of it by Mrs. Lovett's dainty hand. Well at least it's not written in red, which must be a good sign.

"What does it say?" asks Peeta, and for a second I'm surprised – and suspicious – that he knew about the comment without even looking. Then I realize that he means the new scenario and I feel foolish.

"Hold your horses, impatient fake-husband of mine." He raises one eyebrow at me while getting to work sharpening his pencils. He seems to have an awful lot of pencils in constant need of sharpening. "There's a note at the bottom of the papers we handed in last week. Take a look."

I hold it out to him to see and he studies it with a concentrated frown. He smiles faintly and nods and I pull the papers back and read through it myself. There is both good and bad feedback, criticizing us for questioning part of our assignment while giving us props for having done so in a structured and eloquent fashion and for doing the work to support our case. In the end it's neither here nor there, having no effect on our grade, so I don't pay much heed to it. Peeta finishes with his pencil sharpening and I begin read aloud to him what our new scenario entails.

They do indeed allow me to work for the first eight months but there's a heads up included about how I will be unable to work for quite some time after the make believe baby has been make believe delivered. I shrug that part off. That part at least makes more sense to me, though I know plenty of women who haven't had the luxury to allow their bodies to heal and to bond with their new infants. There are even cases where starving new mothers leave their infant babies at a small nursery at the overseer's office, returning from the deep dens of the mines in order to breastfeed every few hours. This is naturally highly impractical, leaves the woman with a drastically reduced pay check since so much time is spent going up and down the mineshafts and nursing and since she has to pay for her baby to lie in a crib at the office with no one to keep constant watch over it. In the end those babies tend to be very susceptible to death in infancy due to being around so much coal dust. I know for my own part that if I ever were unfortunate enough to become pregnant I would at the very least go out hunting as soon and as often as possible after delivery. One more mouth to feed means that every able-bodied person in the household must do their share, no matter what.

Continuing on to the next paragraph I pause, finding I need a minute before I can read what it says next. We should have known something like this would be thrown at us. Our teachers may have been impressed at our gusto and the work we put in but of course they would insist upon coming out on top.

"What?" asks Peeta, his voice oddly soft and vulnerable. Almost as if this was about reality and something that could hurt us for real. I must have paused in an uncommonly dramatic fashion or something. "What is it, Katniss?"

"You've been laid off at the bakery," I tell him, letting the papers drop to the table. "Apparently our imaginary baby is getting an equally imaginary cousin and since Scotti's imaginary wife is _so obviously_ able to work through the remainder of her pregnancy not only is there no further need for your services, but they can't afford to keep you on."

Peeta scowls as he reaches over and grabs the paper, studying them carefully. If he's aware of the reason why they threw this at us he doesn't comment on it. Why should he, anyway? It won't change anything.

"Well…" he finally says, putting the papers back down on the table along with his pencil. "It doesn't really present that much of a wrench into our plans, if you think about it. In fact, I think this is better than what we had last week."

"How do you figure that?" I ask. My fingers play with the end of my braid but I would really like to bite my nails instead.

"Well, last week we completely lost your income."

"Right. And now we're completely losing yours."

"Only temporarily. I just have to take another job. With you not working due to the baby we would have been one income short for months, a year perhaps even."

"A _year_?" I echo, giving him a look that implies he's out of his mind.

"Do you not think they will have the next leg of the project focus on being new parents, learning how to take care of a kid, and most definitely not letting you go back to earning a wage anytime soon?" He cranes his neck to see the clock on the wall through the stream of students walking around looking for seats, or just socializing. "Recess is almost up. As soon as it is, and Mrs. Saunders takes her seat over there at her station, I'm going over there to pick a new job from the list."

He seems so confident about it that I don't challenge his assumption, but I'm not so sure it will be that easy. Our original scenario never said anything about my employer laying me off, even though that might come along later, but we could at least assume I would have a job once they deem me ready to earn my keep again. I'm not so sure there will be any jobs available on that list at this stage. But I don't want to be negative all the time, and if my fears are founded we will know it in a few minutes anyway, so I refrain from saying anything. Not that I can keep entirely from saying something negative. The pregnancy part of this project has that effect on me.

"I just can't _wait_ to see how dark and dreary our finances will look when they decide to settle us with another baby just as soon as I'm able to start working again," I say dryly, doodling on my notepad.

Peeta looks at me for a minute. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and worries it between his teeth for a bit, then slowly lets it slip back out. He makes a quick exhale, like a decisive huff, and picks his pencil back up.

"You know what? I'm tired of this."

"Peeta… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to complain that much. I just couldn't help myself. It was childish and I apologise."

"No but you're right. And I'm tired of all this, too. They want us to learn about the responsibilities that come with having kids, that's fine. But we only need to focus on that for one part of the scenario." He nods towards my notebook, asking to borrow it, and I oblige. He opens it and flips through the pages until he reaches the page where we're putting our new budget together. "We're adding condoms to our list of expenses in the budget."

"What?" I say, my eyes big as saucers.

"Yeah," he nods. "We're going to start buying condoms in this fictional life of ours…" He voices the words he's writing. "So that we can focus our time and money on the child we do have, make sure said child is well clothed and as well-fed as possible, before we bring any other children into the world. Which, when you think about it, is taking adult responsibility." He adds a punctuation mark and tosses the pencil on the table. "There. Done."

"I don't want our teachers reading about us buying _condoms_!" I protest in a hiss, feeling scandalized by the very idea. I look around, praying none of the other students in the room are listening.

"Why not? What difference does it make?" He shrugs and leans back on his chair, balancing it on its back legs. "It's all just make believe."

"So?"

"How is that any more intimate than our teachers planning our pregnancies? Either way sex is involved."

"Well not so explicitly," I argue.

"I would say more so with a baby."

"I wouldn't," I shoot back, my cheeks probably crimson by now.

"For all they know we'd buy condoms and use them only a few times a year, like for our anniversary and stuff. It usually takes more than just one go-around to successfully get pregnant, even if it doesn't it still implies that we have sex on a regular basis, and if they feel up to it they can make us parents of a dozen."

"Peeta you know what I mean," I say through gritted teeth. Adding another baby in the project is about how we deal with finances and with raising children. Adding condoms to our budget is about the sex that would otherwise lead to babies.

"Look, Katniss, it's not that scandalous. A lot of couples do it. Or else women in this district would be having new babies every other year or so. And the mere fact that condoms are available proves it."

"Mrs. Saunders is here," I say quickly, having heard her heavy feet and familiar voice somewhere behind me these past few minutes. "Not one more word about condoms. Go get a list of open jobs. _Now_. Wife's orders."

While he is away obtaining a list of available jobs I take my notebook back and then browse through the rest of the scenario. As soon as we have Peeta's new job and income settled we'll complete the tiresome task of drafting a budget, although this one at least has a new element that doesn't feel extremely forced. I can't argue with the good sense of making us aware of the costs involved with reproduction. Once we've completed the budget we have to write up something about the non-monetary preparations we need to make before we can welcome a new member into the family. It should be fairly simple; we all know people who have had babies, for instance our own parents, so we can just ask around. That's it for this leg of the scenario. It's due on Thursday, meaning we might have to put in some extra time this week too, and come Monday we'll have to deal with the project baby having actually arrived.

My mind goes back to the old textbook and the delivery pictures I saw there. I shudder involuntarily, trying to expel the images from my mind. It occurs to me that we haven't studied childbirth in biology yet and I'm wondering if that is where things are headed. The project work is built on problem-based learning, or so it was advertised. We haven't had much of that yet; so far it's mostly been budgets and essays about our own thoughts and feelings. No searching for facts. Maybe that is just around the corner.

"Okay, I have bad news."

I startle slightly when Peeta slumps down in his chair with a huff, his elbow landing on the table and his chin soon leaning against the back of his hand. With a confused scowl I turn and look over my shoulder, wondering if Mrs. Saunders has disappeared or something. But no, there she sits, discussing something with one of our classmates.

"What is it?" I ask, turning back to Peeta. "What's going on?"

He doesn't answer for a few seconds, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and staring off into space. Then he draws a quick breath and his eyes meet mine.

"Yeah what Mr. Stoker said earlier was true – it's getting tougher as the weeks go on, with the project. That, or we managed to really piss them off and we're simply paying for it now. But I don't think that's it." He grimaces and his fingers begin to play with his pencil sharpener. "There was only one town job left. I didn't get it. She says I should come back in half an hour and see if anything has opened up. This week several of our classmates are getting laid off as well, mostly project pregnant girls I should assume, and some of those jobs become available."

"How could you not get it?" I ask. "It's supposed to be first come, first serve." I have a sneaking suspicion I know the answer already but I want to hear it from him. There's another moment's hesitation on his part but at least this time around he doesn't avoid looking into my eyes.

"Apparently the tanner is not comfortable hiring someone whose spouse is from the Seam."

He snorts and shakes his head. I sit quietly, not knowing what to say. The last town job left was at the tanner's and even that he didn't get? Not a lot of people like to work with tanning. It's incredibly smelly, a stench that gets into your hair and clothes and doesn't seem to wash off, and working with dead animals is off-putting to a great many people. I wouldn't care about that, but I'm used to skinning my prey and I would rather be well-fed than fair-smelling any day. I don't know how Peeta would feel about such a job in real life but for the project it's the same as any other job. Only he couldn't have it. Because his project partner is from the Seam. I make a mental note of having to tell Gale about this. It was only yesterday that he talked about this issue. I never expected it to actually show up in the project. I didn't think that is what the project is for.

I look at Peeta. He looks offended, a deep scowl on his face. I'm not sure how I should feel about that. Is he upset because of me? Or because of the project? I don't ask him, knowing I will find out the answer anyway, and sure enough, after a few minutes he lets me in on what's going on in his mind.

"I know this kind of thing goes on all the time in reality," he says. "Or would, if people had the guts to be with who they wanted to be with, regardless of where in the district they were born. I just think it's wrong and a little messed up that they would throw this into the mix when we're almost two thirds through." To my surprise I feel a strong surge of disappointment when he points out that we're that far in. It seems like we only just begun this and now it's closer to the end than the beginning? "It's supposed to be a stupid _project_ ," continues Peeta, "and it's supposed to be about learning how to handle the household aspects of adulthood. We're supposed to be preparing to get out there and live on our own, with all the important practical aspects taught to us. Who we partner with for the project ought to be utterly irrelevant and shouldn't affect our scenarios. Especially since it's not an even 50/50 split between the Seam kids and the townies."

"Peeta it's alright," I say. To be honest I'm feeling a lot more bothered by the thought of the project being over in just two months. "It's not worth getting upset over."

"I don't agree on either account." He snorts and shifts restlessly in his chair. Then he sighs and leans back, pulling both arms off the table. "I just think it's stupid. What's the point? And how come no one had a problem hiring you during the first week, but now all of a sudden I'm not desirable on the job market because of who I'm partnered with? It's stupid."

"Maybe they just have to make up excuses at this stage to ensure it's not easy to get a job," I say, refusing to let this new turn of events irritate me. I won't give anyone that satisfaction. "In real life people get turned down all the time because there are seven or eight applicants per job, if not more. First come, first serve doesn't apply to the actual world. So for the project they make up excuses instead."

"Do you really believe that's what it's all about? I mean, couldn't they just take the names of those interested, put them in a bowl and draw one?" he asks. He sounds sceptical but willing to accept my thoughts as reality.

"I don't know, Peeta. Maybe."

"Yeah," he sighs with a nod. "Maybe."

"Whatever the reason…" I say, leaning over the table and studying the early draft of our budget. "Whatever the reason, this leaves us in a crummy position."

"It does indeed," he sighs in response. He flashes a quick, joyless grin and leans over the table as well, clasping his hands in front of him. "We need more money coming in because real soon we're going to have a lot of money going _out_. Let's start by completing the list of things we have to spend money on and see where our expenses land. We can work our way backward from there."

"I am so tired of calculating budgets, I could vomit," I complain.

"That could just be the project pregnancy talking," he replies, but I'm in no mood for bad jokes, even though I give him a small smile. I see nothing funny about this particular scenario since it feels all too realistic. I wonder how many couples are faced with this exact problem. I wonder how many of those couples have older children in the household who need to be fed and looked after.

"This budget is going to suck real bad," I remark. "Anything, and I do mean _anything_ that we don't need to survive is off the list. Plain and simple."

"My suggestion is that we set aside your earnings to get the things we still haven't pretended to buy for Cookie Crisp."

"You are not seriously calling it that?"

"What difference does it make what we call it?" he asks, pulling my budget draft closer so he can copy it and work from there while I review the original. "What can they do? Flunk us for giving our fake kids crappy names?"

"If so they should employ this project in District One," I blurt out. "Maybe we wouldn't see any more careers with names like Glimmer and Vanity and Luxury." Peeta chortles at my joke, gives me an amused look and shakes his head. My smile becomes more natural. "Well, anyway, we can't use my whole income on baby stuff. With your income gone we'll need mine to buy food and pay rent. Not to mention we need to save as much of it as we can."

"Save what?" he asks, exasperated. "I'm far from convinced we can make a budget work as it is."

"We _need_ to set money aside," I insists.

"I'll get another income, don't worry."

"Peeta, we're running the risk of _neither_ of us having an income," I point out, feeling both stressed and a little irritated. Not with him but with our school for putting us through this. Most of all, though, with Panem itself, for making us have to face problems like this when we grow up. This country has a far too low population, why does every aspect of having children seem to be designed to pull us under? "What if no other job becomes available? Then where will we be? We both know. Me home with a made up baby and you not getting employed by anyone because they all turned bigoted overnight."

"Katniss-"

"They denied you employment because you're paired with a Seam girl – who's to say the other potential employers won't do the same? There are more workers than jobs so they can afford to be picky."

"Well I'm not," he says firmly. "I don't care what job I have – in the project or in real life. I'll take what is available."

"But not even the _tanner_ wants you," I point out, my voice beginning to sound a little harsh. "At this point I'm not afraid of limited options, Peeta – I'm worried you won't _have_ options."

His eyes meet mine with calm determination for a second before his gaze returns to the problematic budget.

"If nothing else becomes available I'll get myself a job in the mines."

"No!" I say sharply.

He looks up, confused. I realize it's strange for me to protest that since I'm a miner's daughter, no doubt bound for a life of working in the mines myself. Even stranger since I've made it very clear we need an income from him, but I don't care.

"What's wrong with working in the mines?" he asks.

"No," I say again, just as sharply as the first time. "No one I care about is ever getting a job in the mines. I won't allow it."

"I'm impressed that you're getting into character like that," replies Peeta after a second's pause, sounding a bit hesitant. He lets out a brief laugh that seems both tentative and bashful. "But if I had to I would work there. It beats starving. Especially if there's a kid on the way. And there's _always_ work to find down in the coalmines."

I won't budge. I ought to be horrified that I just implied that Peeta is somebody I care that much about but for some reason I don't care, nor do I care that this is all make believe and not reality. Keeping my eyes bearing into his I lean in and snatch the pencil away from him.

"I mean it, Peeta," I say sternly. "You are not going to work in the mines."

He looks like he's about to protest but then another look comes over his face. I wonder if he's thinking about what happened to my father, and I ought to feel uncomfortable being on the receiving end of his pity and understanding. But none of that seems to matter just now. He nods slowly.

"If you feel so strongly about it then I won't," he says.

"Good," I say. "You can't have the pencil back unless you promise."

He smiles faintly.

"I promise."

"Okay."

I hand him the pencil and his smile grows a little wider. I feel oddly reassured when our hands meet as the pencil passes from me to him.

"You are one pushy pretend-wife."

"It's not funny Peeta," I say, dead serious.

"Maybe not funny but... a little endearing." He keeps smiling at me and I find myself smiling back just the slightest bit. Our eyes seem locked together for several seconds, maybe a minute or two even, before he harks and looks down at the scenario. "So, what baby stuff do we think we can live without and what might we be able to borrow, or make?"

"Let's go over the list again and see what we can work out."

I lean closer, close enough that our heads almost brush against each other and I can almost feel the whiff of air when he exhales. We both look at the enclosed list of important baby paraphernalia but I'm having trouble focusing. Sitting so close to Peeta is distracting. He smells faintly of some kind of soap that has a fabricated yet pleasant scent, like a milder version of whatever it is government officials, peacekeepers and Hunger Games personnel seem to bathe in every morning. Unlike those people Peeta uses so little of it that it doesn't overtake his own natural scent – which seems to be cinnamon, vanilla and dill – and instead the two combine and work very well together. Whenever my eyes go to him I'm stricken by those eyes of his, so intense, so warm and so incredibly blue. I almost feel I ought to move a bit further away but I know I don't want to.

"Has it been half an hour, yet?" I ask, harking my voice before I speak.

"Hmm?"

"Half an hour," I repeat, my eyes again meeting with Peeta's. Why do I seem to be stumbling over my words? "You said Mrs. Saunders told you to wait half an hour and see if more jobs had come in."

"Right," he says, his voice sounding deeper than before. "Right, yeah, no… It's barely been fifteen."

"Oh." We keep looking at each other, as if we're both searching for answers in each other and not in the information in front of us. There's an intensity in the moment that I'm not familiar with, and it both scares me a little and makes me feel secure at the same time. Peeta's eyes leave mine for a split second, darting to my mouth before resuming eye contact. "Well, you, uhm… You think there will be more jobs available by then?" I say, starting to feel too confused by the intensity between us and my jumbled emotions and wanting the moment to end while at the same time wishing it could go on for just a little longer.

"Possibly." His voice is still deeper, and a touch hoarse.

"There ought to be. There are almost always jobs to get, only far too many people wanting to get them."

"It's slim pickings," he mumbles. His eyes make a quick dart to my mouth again. Do I have something on my lips? Then he breaks eye contact and pulls away, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forward over them. "Which doesn't make sense if you think about it," he continues. "How could there be a variety of jobs available when we pretend-graduated but a few years down the line it's down to the stuff nobody wanted back then? Logically there ought to be roughly the same amount of available jobs every year."

"Logically?" I give him a faint smile. "You're trying to apply logic to this?"

"Right. My bad."

I almost feel compelled to chuckle and I give him a playful nudge with my elbow, earning me a somewhat bashful grin in return. It's odd seeing something like that on his face when I'm only inches away from the face in question. I like it though. He has a nice smile, the kind that lights up his whole face.

"I meant what I said earlier – I would take any job. For the project and for real," he then says, sitting back on his chair. His tone has changed, sounding more like his normal voice. "For the project it's not like it matters. I won't actually be doing that work. And in real life anything is better than starving."

"Almost…" I mumble in a low voice. I can't bear thinking of him working in the mines but that's not all that's coming to my mind right now. For whatever reason the image of scrawny, freezing women knocking on head peacekeeper Cray's door comes to the forefront of my mind and it makes me shudder. I doubt Cray would be interested in any services Peeta could offer but I'm hit with the realization that I would have to be pretty close to starving to death before I gave myself to him. And if I were married I don't think I would be able to at all. To me being married means being monogamous. The strange thing is, I'm imagining how it would hurt _Peeta_ if we were married and I went to Cray to put money on our table. I ought to be imagining Gale. I tell myself it's just the circumstances playing tricks on my mind but it's all quite confusing.

"You okay?" asks Peeta, picking up on the tone in my voice.

"Yeah," I claim, leaning back as well. "Fine. Pick whatever town job you want. I don't think any of them pays well but it's better than nothing."

"I just hope I can get one at all," he says, a concerned frown underlining his words. He leans in to take another look at the list of baby things we need to include in our budget and sighs. "And let us both hope we can get help from friends and family to get everything we need to get. Hey do you think it would be considered cheating to make pretend friends with Haymitch Abernathy and receive gifts from him? It would be unethical, but it's just a fantasy, not reality."

"If it were reality we'd have my game to help sustain us," I blurt out before remembering where I am and who I'm with. I realize what I just said and freeze up. While mine and Gale's hunting is something of a well-known secret everyone in town is in on it's not something I discuss openly, certainly not at school. Of course Peeta knows I venture out into the woods but I don't actually know what he genuinely thinks about it. A lot of people would probably disapprove. Even possibly people whose father buys my game.

I'm almost afraid to look at him, unsure of what he will think. When I do let my eyes drift back to him he seems completely unfazed, but when he sees the look on my face it seems to puzzle him.

"What?" he asks.

"I… I don't know… I don't know why I just said that. I mean…"

"Katniss my father is the guy who buys your squirrels," Peeta points out. He keeps his voice low, so no one can overhear. "I know you hunt. It's no big deal."

"Really?" I say, taken aback. Not because he knows I hunt but because he's neither intimidated by it nor disapproving of it.

"Really. Everyone knows that about you, and you know that too, so I don't know what your reaction right now is about. But I agree, we can't include your game in our budget. Everything we hand in goes into official filing and that's not good in this case." He doodles a little on his notebook, his eyes leaving mine, and harks. "Truth be told, if it was for real I don't know if we'd be including it anyway."

"Why not?" I ask.

"To be quite frank I wouldn't be comfortable with my wife going out into the woods all the time."

I frown and lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. Perhaps I was too hasty in my judgment a moment ago. Apparently he does disapprove. And it makes me feel disappointed in him.

"Why not? You don't think a woman can provide for her family that way?"

"Who said anything about men versus women?" asks Peeta. "I simply meant that... Well, you said you weren't comfortable with somebody you love working in the mines. I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with somebody I love going hunting in the woods. It's too dangerous. I'd be worried every single minute."

"I said someone I _care_ about," I correct him, not sure why I feel the need. He raises an eyebrow at me and I make a face that's really an acquiescence that that point is moot. "But what's so bad about the woods? Have you ever been out there?"

His eyes widen.

"Me?" He shakes his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Are you kidding? It's against the law. I'm not courageous, like you are. Besides, I don't know how to survive out in the wilderness. I'd probably get my ass kicked by a bunny within fifteen minutes."

His comment makes me laugh and I forget that I was annoyed with him mere seconds ago. He smiles and I have to admit to myself that I'm happy he does. I like seeing him smile. Especially when it's in response to something I've said or done.

"You would not," I chuckle. "You're a strong wrestler. You could take the bunny."

"Strong wrestler, huh?" he says with a grin.

The way he says it makes me feel a little funny, no doubt also making me blush, and I hark my voice and try to steer us back on topic again.

"So, we agree that we can't add my game to our income."

"Right," he says, still smiling. His eyes are fixed on me, but not in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable.

"That doesn't mean we can't find other things to eat that we don't buy from stores," I say. "My father taught me about edible plants and we have a book at home with more details on them." I've never spoken to someone I don't know all that well about my father's book before but I feel like I can trust Peeta with this. More than that, I feel like it's a favour I can do him –a meagre reciprocation of the bread he gave me that saved my life. If – when – he finds himself with little to nothing to eat this might be of use to him. "There are all sorts of edible plants around. Most in the forest but some within the fences."

"Really?" he says, his eyebrows raised a bit. "That's neat. Such as?"

I look back up at him and an odd feeling runs through me.

"Dandelions..."

"Dandelions. You can eat those?"

I nod slowly.

"Here I always thought they're weed."

"No..." I say slowly. "They're very useful flowers."

"Your father taught you all about this stuff, huh?"

I smile a little, thinking of my father, which is easier to do nowadays without the overwhelming sadness taking over. Talking about him is another thing I've never really done with a stranger since after he passed. Not that Peeta is a stranger anymore but he's not a close friend either. I've only spoken to Madge about my father once or twice and even with Gale and Prim I rarely talk about him. Now the words just seem to fall out of my mouth on their own accord.

"I have him to thank for not fearing the forest. He loved it there and he wanted me to feel the same. When I was little he took me out in the woods for the first time and he began to show me things."

"Like how to use the bow?"

"Yeah. He showed me things I could have use for to survive, in the woods and in general." My smile widens a bit. "I remember the day he taught me that as long as I can find myself I'll never have to starve."

Peeta looks confused.

"I'm... not sure what that means," he admits.

"Katniss is a plant," I tell him. "An edible one."

"It is?"

"Yeah."

"What does it look like?"

I begin to describe the katniss plant to him in as much detail as I can. At first I'm enthusiastic but then I start to feel a little irritated. He's barely listening. He's doodling on his notebook while I talk. I'm suddenly reminded that this is not a close friend I'm talking to. It's Peeta Mellark, the guy I'm doing a project with at school, and while he's polite enough to ask me questions about myself it's obvious he doesn't really care about the answers. I finish my description quickly and with a scowl on my face. He doesn't seem to notice. He finishes his doodles and pushes his notepad to me.

"Something like this?" he asks.

Confused I lean in and look at his notebook. He wasn't doodling – I realize that the second I lay eyes on the page of his notebook. He has been drawing a katniss plant based on my description. Not just a simple sketch but a really well done drawing. Some of the details are wrong but you can clearly see what it's supposed to be. My mouth opens a little and I pick the pad up to take a closer look.

"Peeta, this... this is really good."

I'm pleased to see him blush at the compliment.

"Thanks. So it looks right? You can tell what it's supposed to be?"

"Yeah, absolutely." I put the pad back down carefully. "I had no idea you knew how to draw so well."

His cheeks turn even redder and I can hardly keep a smile off my face. There's something so disarming and charming about his reaction and it touches some spot in my heart that I usually don't allow people to touch.

"Uh, thanks. It's not that big of a deal."

"Of course it is," I say. "This is really good. You have a talent."

"Not like you do," he objects and takes the notepad back. "It's a useless talent. I can't make a living out of drawing stuff."

"No, I suppose not," I say. "But still…"

"And it's an expensive hobby. Doodles in notepads are one thing but anything that involves real colours and good paper costs about as much as my whole family spends on food in a month."

"Well… if we ever find ourselves with excess money we'll be sure to put it in the budget," I hear myself saying.

He looks up at me again and gives me a smile with just the right touch of shyness, telling me he's touched by what I said even though it doesn't matter since it's all just hypothetical anyway. All the same I smile back at him. It feels good to have made him happy, even if only for a moment, even if only over a theoretical thing. Then suddenly he leans in and kisses me lightly on the cheek. I blush instantly and move my hand up to touch the spot but stop halfway there. I look at him and he smiles calmly.

"You are a really classy person, Katniss," he says.

"Thanks," I mumble, feeling more than a little bit confused. I understand perfectly that what he just did was simply a friendly gesture. I've seen him and his female friends exchange cheek kisses numerous times. I feel a little embarrassed for having visibly reacted, as if I'm not used to kisses of any kind, but he's polite enough to pretend not to notice.

"I promise if we are able to include paint supplies in the budget I'll paint you a katniss plant in watercolours," he says, his tone almost a touch too light and casual. Our eyes remain locked with each other for a few more moments, some sort of understand passing between us. I become the first to look away, my eyes fluttering to the katniss he's already drawn. I study it even more carefully than I already have and I try to imagine what he might be able to produce in watercolours.

I hear Peeta's chair pushing back and turn my head to see him stand up. It's been half an hour. I wish him luck and then try to focus on the budget, but my eyes seem to want to observe him instead. Does he look frustrated? Happy? Worried? He's got two people ahead of him in line, which frustrates _me_. They're not vying for any of the jobs, are they? If all that's left again is the tanner's then we're in trouble. My hand goes to my face again, the spot Peeta kissed feeling oddly tingly, almost like a burning sensation. At the last moment I stop my fingers from touching the skin. I'm not sure if the sensation is a discomfort or not but it's definitely unusual.

Peeta comes back and I look up at him expectantly.

"Well? How did it go?"

"I hope it doesn't bother you that your supposed better half is something of a weasel at times," he says, pulling out his chair and sitting back down.

"I don't follow."

"At first she tried to say no one would want to hire me due to my half-Seam wife, except for two out of the now seven available positions, and those two would require handing in an application and not finding out until Monday whether or not I got it."

"And? What happened?"

He smirks but holds up his fist to cover his mouth, trying to hide it.

"One of the jobs was at the Cartwright's shop. I simply told Mrs. Saunders that I know the family since childhood, grew up together with their kids, and they would hire me before anyone else. Regardless of who I was married to."

I feel a rush of excitement and, oddly, hope. That feeling shouldn't be associated with a school project but it's there nonetheless.

"So you got the job?"

"I did indeed! On a trial basis, apparently, but at least it gets us through this leg and probably the next."

"That's great!" I say, brimming with excitement, and I feel a sudden urge to lean in and hug him. It's only the fact that we're in the school assembly room, surrounded by gossipy students, that holds me back. But I think I can see in Peeta's smile that he's thinking what I'm thinking.

"We have a source of income now," he says, laughing lightly. "Come on, here's my salary." He writes it down on my notepad, then on his own. It's larger than what he had at the bakery, but that's only logical, since working within the family business as a younger sibling tends to be less profitable than taking an outside job. "Let's get to work."

With a dosage of new energy and for once rather bright spirits between us we get to work, spending the rest of the hour working through the budget and completing it with about ten minutes to spare. That gives us some time to work on the other assignment we have. Not enough to complete it though, and since it's due on Thursday we'll have to put in some extra hours out of school.

"It will have to be tomorrow," says Peeta as we're finishing up for the day. "Wednesday I have wrestling practice."

"You seem to have an awful lot of that," I remark.

"Yeah," he chuckles, "calendar-wise anyway. It's actually only ninety minutes on Mondays and Thursdays, and an hour on Wednesdays. Four hours a week is nothing. If you want to get really good at something like this you have to practice way more often than that."

"Yeah, I hear you," I nod. "I wouldn't have gotten good with the bow unless I practiced all the time."

"Good with the bow? You're _great_ with the bow. My father says you hit the squirrels right in the eye, every time."

"I'm good enough," I shrug, feeling awkward at the compliment.

He crosses his arms on the table and leans forward, bringing his face close to mine. He lowers his voice, speaking to me in a conspiring tone.

"Where do you… get the arrows?" The way he says it almost sounds like we're talking about arrows meant to be used as weapons in a secret war against the peacekeepers or something. Not that making them for hunting purposes is legal either.

"I make them, silly," I answer, enjoying the teasing tone I never really use with anyone but him.

"Yeah?" He looks genuinely impressed. "That is so cool."

"Not really," I say with a light chuckle. "Unless you like getting splinters. It's a lot of work for something that, unfortunately, might only be useable once. And might not gain you anything if you miss and the arrow breaks."

"No, I mean it." He leans in even closer, though this part of the conversation doesn't really require any secrecy. "I admire that. People who create things. Not just bakery bread but actual, lasting things. I know I said once I've considered being a teacher but what I would really like to do is something that allows me to create. Cobblers, carpenters, tailors… People who make arrows… I think it's great. With your own bare hands you're making things exist that weren't there before."

"I've never thought of it that way. To me it's just something I have to do. Far from my favourite part of hunting." I take care to lower my voice for the last word, just in case someone overhears.

"I think it's great," says Peeta again. "You're self-reliant. You need arrows to hunt so you make them. I admire that."

I smile, pleased by his approval.

"Hey Peeta, you done playing house yet?" We both startle a bit and look up to see one of Peeta's friends walking up to us. He smacks Peeta lightly on the head, sending his curly hair into disarray. "Come on man, get moving. Coach will be _pissed_ if you're late twice in two weeks. Your new girl can wait until after practice."

"Smooth as ever," says Peeta dryly. His whole demeanour changes in a heartbeat, his smile losing some of its warmth and turning more into a smirk, and his back straightening as he begins to gather his things. The biggest change though are his eyes, no longer warm but instead just kind of casual, and his tone of voice. "I'll be with you in five." He looks up at his friend and gives him a joyless smirk. "And Katniss is not my new _girl_. It's a project, stupid."

"Yeah, well you're looking awfully cosy to me," says the guy, whose name is Rusty. He leans back against a table, crosses his arms over his chest and eyes us both. I scowl and decide to ignore him as I pack up my things. In fact I'm also pretty much ignoring Peeta, or at least pretending to. "And now you're teaming up in physics, too?"

"Well she was pretty much the last person in class to realize how terrible I am at it," answers Peeta. "I'm running out of possible lab partners and she was duped. Once."

"Sure," chuckles Rusty. "And the holding hands in the library a while back, what was that about?"

"Jeez, Rust, how boring is your own life right now?" snorts Peeta. He begins to put his things in his backpack but I'm already finished so I pull my chair back to stand up. "If you're hoping for a new couple to be the first to spread the word about, I'm afraid you're going to have to look elsewhere." I feel his hand on mine as I'm about to leave. Startled I pause. Our eyes meet one more time, this time with none of the intensity from before. "Good work today, Katniss. Catch you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I manage, my voice feeling hoarse.

"Right. Thanks for today."

And then he turns to his friend and begins to discuss wrestling, and I'm practically forgotten. I begin to leave the assembly room and head for my locker to leave some books, bring home some others, and of course get my outerwear. I'm relieved he kind of blew me off in front of his friend as the last thing I need is for rumours to begin to spread about Peeta and me. Gale will surely hear of any such gossips through his brothers and the last thing I need is to add more fuel to his merchant-disliking fire.

I put on my old coat and my hat, wrapping the scarf around my neck and grabbing my gloves. When I leave the building I'm struck by the bitter cold. It's gotten colder again during the day. But all the way home, and throughout the rest of the evening, the spot on my cheek where Peeta's lips touched burns in a not so unpleasant sensation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: Peeta's comment about not wanting someone he loves (okay, Katniss) to go out into the woods, I hope no one takes that the wrong way. I don't recall him saying anything along those lines in canon but there's never much of a reason for him to do so. It's not about Katniss' capabilities but I wanted to allude to the fear of the woods that a lot of District 12 citizens seem to have. And also, I think one of the reasons he admires her so much is because she goes into the woods where he wouldn't dare set foot.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

Once our final class of the day is over Peeta and I meet up and go to the assembly room to finish the last part of project work for this week. It's another day of bad weather, the temperature somewhere around fifteen degrees below with hard winds that drop it even further. In my book just the right kind of afternoon to stay late so I'm actually a bit pleased. Not much point in trying to hunt with a bow and arrow when the winds will make it impossible to aim it right. Knowing this, and looking back on the day before, I feel invigorated and ready to get to work. Peeta chuckles briefly and comments on my good mood as he sits down with me at our table but he doesn't seem as invigorated himself. In fact he seems a bit tired this afternoon and it reminds me of Gales' fatigue when we last saw each other. Thinking of Gale makes me wonder if he will come by to see me tonight or if he'll be at home on the couch, barely having enough energy to help Posy with her homework. If so, will he be expecting me to come over and see him? It's only been two days since we last saw each other but he's gotten weird about these things since we started dating. Before he seemed elated to see me every Sunday but now he's displeased if more than a few days go by without us seeing each other.

"Did you ask your mother?" asks Peeta, bringing me back to the present moment. He's referring to our agreement to ask people we know who have children what preparations you need to make before a child is born into the family.

"I did," I answer, opening up my notebook. I turn the pages until I come to the last one I've written on. My mother turned out to have a lot of things to say on the subject so I wrote it all down to ensure I wouldn't forget most of it. "What about you, did you ask around?"

"Yeah," he nods. "I was at a friend's last night and got her parents to talk about it at length. Granted, most of it was actually about the stage when the child starts to crawl and you have to try and remove anything it can hurt itself on, but some of it was useful for the specifics of the assignment." He shrugs. "And anyway, sooner or later kids will start crawling, right?"

"My mother spoke a lot about the bassinette, and getting it just right. And she spoke even more about what you need to do to hopefully prevent the baby dying in its infancy."

"Well that's certainly useful information," says Peeta, looking a bit rattled by the thought of sudden infant death. "They'll probably fail us if we kill our fiction baby. Can you give me an example?"

"For instance, the baby should always be placed on its back – _never_ on its stomach."

"Okay," nods Peeta, writing it down on a bullet point list he's gotten started on in his own notepad. "But why?"

"It keeps the upper respiratory tract clear to a much larger degree," I say, practically hearing my mother's voice in my head as I say the words ' _upper respiratory tract_ '. "Plus, I assume, the kid can press its face to the pillow or mattress or whatever it's lying on if it's on its stomach, and suffocate."

"What about letting it sleep on its side?" asks Peeta with a scowl, writing down my explanations at a surprising speed. "If it's on its back doesn't it risk inhaling its own vomit and… drowning in it? Or getting pneumonia or something? Babies vomit all the time, from my experience."

"They projectile vomit," I answer. I asked my mother that same question and now I'm parroting her answer back to Peeta. "If the baby is on its side it might roll over on its stomach."

"Man," says Peeta as he writes, "human babies are ridiculously fragile. Like they weren't even built to survive. Makes you boggle at humanity's ability to subsist."

"Tell me about it," I snort. "Furthermore, Mother says it's important to keep the baby's face clear of blankets or clothing or anything like that. Basically avoid anything that might impede breathing. She says it's important that the baby can move freely and that it's not too warm. Seriously, she talked for like thirty minutes about how to arrange the bassinette and-" I lose my train of thought when Peeta leans closer to me, his face stopping merely a couple of decimetres from my own. His hand reaches out, the tips of his fingers gently stroking a spot below my right eye.

"Eyelash," he explains before slowly leaning back to his previous position.

"Thanks," I mumble, willing my cheeks not to flush crimson. I feel the same tingling sensation where his fingertips brushed me as I did when he kissed my cheek yesterday – in fact I sometimes feel traces of that sensation still.

"Sorry – you were saying?"

"Uhm… Well, I… Actually I think I was about done. Talking about arranging the cradle. And it's apparently quite important that you _have_ a cradle. Or crib or bassinette."

"Meaning the baby should sleep alone and not with us in our bed?" he asks, glancing up at me while he writes. It seems to fall so easily from his lips, _with us in our bed_ , words painting a picture of the two of us sharing a life and a home together. Sharing a _family_ together. It's all make believe but he has a way of painting a picture that I can almost see. What stops it from frightening me is how far away it is from reality.

"Exactly," I answer him with a nod, wondering why I don't feel wholly uncomfortable hearing him speak of _our_ baby sleeping in _our_ bed with us? There should be nothing about that scenario that appeals to me.

"Aside from the risk of the baby getting too warm," continues Peeta, "or one of us accidentally pulling something over its face while we sleep, does it ever happen that parents roll over their infants in their sleep? And is that why it's important to have a bassinette, or a crib, or cradle?"

"Why are you asking me that?" _Now_ I feel unsettled, but it's mostly the horrifying scenario – rolling over your own infant in your sleep and thereby killing it! It makes me shiver. "Why would I know?"

"Your mother didn't say anything about it?"

"No, not that I can recall."

"Okay," he nods. "Still, it seems plausible to me. Is it alright by you if we mention it? As something we are concerned might happen, if nothing else?"

"Sure," I mutter, squirming a little. I don't like the thought of having something like that in our project but I don't want to reject the things he suggests unless they're factually incorrect, and it doesn't seem to be impossible for something like that to happen.

"Okay, good." He scratches his cheek and it sounds like he's got a bit of stubble. "So we've prepared our cradle, or whatever the kid will be sleeping in. What do we do next?"

It takes us forty minutes to finish compiling everything we've found out and turn it from a bullet-point list into a flowing text. Up until now Peeta has been the one holding the pencil whenever it has been time to write something down that isn't a list or a budget but today I volunteer to do the honours.

"Sure," says Peeta, making a valiant attempt at hiding his surprise.

"Here's a tidbit about me you may not have known before," I say in an upbeat tone of voice as I sharpen my pencil the same way Peeta near-obsessively does before starting to write something new. "I have hardly any respect for those who lie to me."

"Seems like a reasonable trait," he answers with an expression as if he's weighing the information.

"Do you want to read through it before we hand it in? Check the language and all?" I take care to make the question sound as innocent as possible, avoiding eye contact with him for fear that I might not be able to keep the indifferent act up otherwise.

"Here's a tidbit about me you may not have known before," he answers in a warm chuckle. "I'm a bit compulsive when it comes to the language and all – for school stuff. One of my worst traits, in fact. And as such, yes, I would quite enjoy getting to read through it and possibly make a few adjustments." He makes a face that is somehow both a cringe and a smile at once. "I hope you don't mind. I promise you that it's nothing personal. I've always been this way."

"How perfect are you if _that_ is one of your worst traits?" I say in a flummoxed voice, shaking my head slightly at the idea. Peeta suddenly blushes, leans back and averts his eyes. Only then do I realize that those words did not come out sounding as teasing, as _joking_ as I intended for them to. Struggling not to panic and to think of a way of getting this back on the proper track I turn my eyes from him as well, staring instead at the blank page of my notebook open in front of me. "Methinks you are exaggerating the severity of…" I almost curse at myself, knowing I should have known better than to go for the big words when saying things generally isn't my strong suit. "You seem to have a flawed understanding of how bad each flaw is."

"Yeah that could be it," he says, but I can clearly hear that he's not genuinely jesting. His tone is forced, not at all natural.

"And I don't mind," I say, looking at him again. My tone has shifted now to soft sincerity. "That you want to look it over before we hand it in."

"You don't have to tell me that to be polite," he says, his cheeks still a bit crimson. I don't understand why he won't meet my eyes. I was the one who embarrassed myself, not him. "All jokes aside, it is a rather obnoxious thing for me to ask."

"Only if you had lied about it. And you didn't ask me – I asked you."

"I think obnoxiousness is obnoxiousness across the board," he argues, scratching his chin again. "Adding dishonesty makes it _more_ obnoxious, to be sure, but it's perfectly reasonable to feel insulted by it." His eyes dart to me quickly, then turn away just as fast. "Not that I meant it as an insult. Like I said, I'm just a bit of a control freak about it."

"Are you sure you don't want to write it?" I ask, taking care to make my words sound like an offering and not like I'm rolling my eyes on the inside.

"Positive."

"Okay." How did the mood between us change so fast? What even happened to set it off? After all, what I said was a compliment. "For future reference, by the way, I don't allow people to call my fictional husband obnoxious, even if it is him doing it."

He doesn't laugh at my attempt at a joke, nor even smile. In fact he doesn't react at all, as if he didn't hear me. He's rolled up the sleeves of his thin, brown sweater and is leaning over the table again, eyes focused on the bullet-point list we made earlier. It occurs to me that he never mentioned having gotten any information from his parents. It was all from the parents of that friend he was with last night. Did the baker and his wife really have nothing to contribute to this part of the project? They've successfully raised three children so they must know something about keeping them alive past infancy, though I'm not sure if Peeta has any siblings that died during babyhood. I suppose it's entirely possible. Child mortality rates in District 12 are not as bad as they were a thousand years or so ago but they're still a lot higher than in the Capitol, even before children reach reaping age. But I don't like to think about dying babies right now, and I can't very well ask him about it, so my mind goes back to the question of why Peeta didn't ask his parents for help with this. Or did he, and got little to no response? I recall all those times over the years when I've seen him come to school with bruises and black eyes, sometimes shielding a part of his body as if though it hurts. It can't be the mild-mannered, friendly baker who did those things to him. His own mother did those things to him and as my mind lingers on that thought for a moment I think with bewilderment how she doesn't seem to show much appreciation for a son most parents would be very proud of. A diligent student who also finds the time to help out in their family business, a witty and compassionate person who is well-liked among his peers and doesn't start trouble. A teenaged boy who is both smart and humble and mature beyond his years.

Two things hit me in short succession. It is not beyond the realm of probability that she would fail to see all the positive traits in him or at the very least neglect to show that she appreciates him for them. And Peeta might have thought I was mocking him and putting him down just now. That would explain why he seems to have retreated behind his walls all of a sudden. I want to tell him that I in no way meant to be belittling but I'm afraid to do so. If I'm wrong about my assumption then saying something might in fact have the opposite effect and instead ensure that he _does_ think I was insulting him. And I can't very well tell him that I was far more sincere when I said what I said.

"I really don't mind that you want to look the language over," I say instead. "You are far better at it than I am."

"At the language?" he says, looking up at me with a genuinely puzzled expression. "You do speak it fluently, same as me."

"We both know my point still stands," I say. "It always seems to come so easily to you; you're always finding the right words to say and the right time to say them."

"Oh if only that were true," he says, following up his words with a short laughter. He pauses for a moment and then looks up at me, now smiling softly. I don't return his smile but I feel pleased nonetheless. Whatever glum mood came over us it seems to be gone now, or at least on its way.

"Well," I say, "you haven't seen the disasters that were my end-of-term tests on synonyms, much less the 'describe such-and-such in your own words' questions that keep popping up on our exams."

Now he chuckles softly, giving me a lopsided smile.

"I think you're better at it than you think you are."

"Which you're saying _before_ having read what I'm about to put together."

He gives me a look that in a pleasant way reminds me of yesterday.

"Well why don't we try to piece this thing together… together?"

Really, that's what we've been doing for the most part every other week, composing the contents of our texts together with Peeta doing the actual writing it down on paper. He's formulated many of the sentences and spiced it up with long words here and there – or as I've now learned that they are called, _polysyllabic_. I have no idea where he picks up words like that but for whatever reason he seems to find it fascinating. I find it rather meaningless, to be perfectly honest. I mean, how many ways to say a word do you need? Peeta is adamant about not repeating words too often and too close together, opting for synonyms instead, and I let him have his way even though I fail to see the point. But I've been comfortable with him at the helm, knowing he has a keen understanding of what he's doing and selfishly realizing that his skills in this department are benefiting me and my grade. But I want to do my fair share and not just wonder if I've been riding on his coattails. I don't think Peeta would accuse me of anything like that, he knows how much work I put into this, but I'm afraid our teachers might start to wonder. If everything we hand in that's not a budget or an individual assignment or a list of some sort is written down in Peeta's neat and tidy handwriting and in his distinctive style our teachers might start to wonder.

"I say we start with the stuff that's directly linked to the kid's _survival_ ," I suggest. "Those are most important, obviously, so they should come first."

"Isn't it all about making sure the kid survives?" retorts Peeta.

"No, not directly. Making sure the baby lies on its back is to ensure it won't drown in its own vomit or get pneumonia. Finding a good space for a changing table is not a matter of life or death."

"Point taken," nods Peeta. "Why don't you get started writing about the whole baby-on-its-back thing?"

I nod and get to work. When I've finished I ask him to read me the next survival-related entry on our list and he does, letting me formulate it however I want to. He keeps reading the items on the list to me and only jumps in with direct suggestions for exactly how to write it a handful of times. I ask for his input a few times as well, but for the most part it's up to me to write it all down into a cohesive text. It doesn't take all that long, the finished write-up just about a page in length, and I hand it over to Peeta for proof-reading. It feels a bit awkward, in all honesty. Like he's my teacher and he's grading my work. He lifts his eyes from the text and searches his pencil case for something, and for an odd moment I get the feeling he's looking for a red pen to mark things he feels should be changed. Instead it's an eraser he finds and without looking up at me he explains to me what he's changing and why.

"Here you accidentally misspelled 'responsibly' with an _A_ instead of an _I_ ," he says, and I choose not to tell him it wasn't an accident but how I thought the word was spelled. He reads another line or two and erases something else. "Hope you don't mind, but here I think it would flow better if we use-"

"You don't need to tell me everything you're changing. It's fine."

"You sure?" he asks, looking up at me.

"Oh, pretty sure."

He smiles cutely at me and goes back to work. After maybe five minutes or so he hands it back to me, as if I had any reason to read it all over again. He seems eager for me to do so, though, so I go along with it and eye the text as if I would have any reason to change any of his edits. As I eye through it I note that all of a sudden there are semicolons in the text, a punctuation mark I can honestly say I've never used. Whenever I come across a word or a sentence Peeta has written the change in handwriting stands out to me. I don't mind it per se but I wonder if our teachers are going to pick up on it.

"What do you say?" asks Peeta. "Is it okay?"

"Yeah," I say, pushing it back towards him, deciding I don't need to read it through to the end. I rise and begin to gather my things, leaving it to him to put the paper into our folder. Peeta remains seated for a while, meticulously gathering his books, notepads and pencils. At first I think he's just being his typical self but then I notice he is looking out the window with a scowl on his face.

"What?" I ask.

"Hmm?" Slowly he turns his face back towards me.

"What is so interesting outside the window?"

"Nothing," he sighs. "Just another ice cold winter's day with heavy winds to boot."

"And you think that by staring at it you're going to make it go away?" I ask with a gentle smile, putting the last of my things in my backpack.

"Oh if only, Katniss."

Although I've got all my of things ready I stay and wait for him as he, at a glacial pace it seems, collects his things. He would no doubt move a lot faster if he wasn't staring out the window the whole time but I don't comment. Finally he finishes and we rise together, putting our backpacks on in almost perfect synchronisation. Looking around the assembly room I get an odd feeling, no doubt because I'm not used to staying here after hours. It's strange to see the room that bustles with life all day long being almost empty. Only five other tables have kids sitting at them and everyone is focused on completing their homework under the electric lights shining down brightly from the ceiling, making me wonder if the electricity stays on in this building long after its gone out in the Seam. Though the superior lighting is not the only reason, or even the largest one, why students choose to do their homework here. It's so much quieter here now than during the day, with far fewer voices speaking in lower tones. There is also access to library books and you can do as much homework as you have time, energy or desire to do since you have all your textbooks nearby. When you're tired, freezing and starving carrying six or seven different textbooks home with you feels like carrying six or seven bricks. Better then to stay here and get whatever book you need at the moment, and carry few or none of them home with you. I suppose I should be surprised that only a handful of kids stayed late today but possibly the poor weather made people want to get home while there was still a bit of daylight. Peeta and I haven't been working all that long and already the sky has darkened and hearing the wind whistling out there makes the assembly room seem unusually warm, bright and inviting.

"You ready?" asks Peeta and I jolt, realizing that my mind has been wandering. I smile sheepishly and nod.

"Ready as ever."

"Okay good."

We fall in side by side, walking past the mostly empty tables. Neither of us speaks until we've left the room and reached the hallways, so empty at this hour that each and every step we take seems to cause an echo that bounces from wall to wall until you'd think there were five of us walking here. I'm surprised to hear it, since I usually don't make this much noise when I walk, even on the hard stone floors of the school building's corridors. I stop under the pretence of needing to tie my shoelace and Peeta catches on and stops as well to wait for me. The few seconds between my stopping and him doing the same was all I needed to confirm my suspicion. While I'm not as quiet here as I am in the woods I have nothing on Peeta. When we start to walk again the loud noise of his footsteps begins to irritate me so I start to talk just to drown the racket with my own voice.

"It's so strange being here at this hour. The place is so deserted."

"Deserted?" Peeta looks genuinely surprised at my choice of words. "There's people everywhere."

"Yeah, we can't make it two meters in this hallway without bumping into people," I reply dryly.

"No, you're right. We must be the only two people alive within a kilometre's radius," he answers back with sarcasm matching my own. "Really, it's time we band together to ensure any hope of survival."

"You're such a loon," I sigh theatrically, giving him a friendly bump with my shoulder. He tries to hide a chuckle and I smile but choose not to comment. We walk in silence, his thunderous steps notwithstanding, until we've rounded a few more corners and reach the hallway where our lockers are. We're the only ones here and it seems like every sound we make is amplified, giving me the odd feeling of being here when we shouldn't be and each sound acting to betray us. "It _is_ deserted," I mumble to Peeta as I open my locker with what feels like a loud bang. "I don't think I like this place with no people around."

"You mean you've never been here before this long after class?" The look he gives me is genuinely surprised. He opens his backpack with a zipping sound so loud it almost makes me jump. "Not ever?"

"I have better things to do with my time," I answer, keeping my voice low even though nobody is here to overhear us. "Going out into the woods to try and secure dinner usually comes before doing my homework."

"I admire you so, Katniss," says Peeta so softly and warmly that I pause and almost don't dare to look at him for fear of what it might feel like to see his face just then. From the corner of my eye I see him turning his face back to his locker and his head disappears behind its open door, escaping my view. "I know you're not at the bottom of our class, in fact I suspect you're quite high up there, and yet you have all these other responsibilities and things you accomplish before you focus on homework. I seriously don't know how you do it. If I didn't do my homework right away I would never find the time."

"I don't think that's true," I reply. For some reason my hands seem to be shaking a bit as I put my books on their shelf and reach for my scarf. "You do better than I do with school and you have your wrestling practice and you help out at the bakery."

"None of those things can compare to what you do for your family," he insists, wrapping his scarf around his neck. He puts his jacket on and struggles for a moment to get the scarf in the right place to allow him to button up. "I've never known anyone who looks after their loved ones the way you do." He gives me a crooked smile which I can only see for half a second before his head disappears behind the locker door again as he searches for his gloves. "Gale truly is a lucky guy. I hope he knows how lucky."

I feel myself blush all the way up to my hairline and I'm glad there's a locker door between him and me just then. I wonder if Peeta would still think Gale is all that lucky if he knew I haven't been by to see him at all this week. I decide right on the spot that I will go over to the Hawthorne home after dinner tonight and see how he is doing.

"I'm ready to go," I say, hoping my voice sounds casual and indifferent. I slam my locker shut in a way that would have sounded loud even if the hallway had been full of people and noise. Peeta closes his locker in a much gentler way, snapping the lock shut before turning to me with a smile that doesn't fully reach his eyes.

"So let's get moving," he says and begins to walk towards the exit. He pulls his knitted gloves on his hands and sighs. "I can't wait for winter to be over. How many hours until spring?"

"You want an exact answer to that?"

"Almost do," he says in another sigh, adjusting the straps on his backpack. "I love winter from an artistic standpoint. The glistening snow, the way the night sky seems orange-pinkish when it's snowing. I tell you, when we read about the aurora borealis three years ago I wanted nothing more than to get to see them in real life, and the chance to try and paint them."

"Why? What's the big deal about green lights in the sky?"

"Because it's a whole world of colour floating across the sky!" he exclaims. "To get the chance to see something that beautiful…."

"I like the sky to behave the way it's supposed to," I shrug. Northern lights never held any appeal to me. When it comes to nature I prefer things to be the way I'm accustomed to them being.

"Yeah, well…" sighs Peeta wistfully. "If I could get to see them, just once, I would die a happy man."

"You might as well wish for the ability to time travel," I point out.

"Well what's the point of dreaming of something that's easily obtained?" he retorts. "Anyway, the beauty of winter aside, this is not a very nice season if you ask me. Plus it's flanked by autumn and spring, two other seasons that are absolutely gorgeous, so it's not like winter has an edge."

"Except for the aurora borealis," I smile. We're almost at the doors and I reach inside my pocket for my gloves. In the corner of my eye I catch Peeta cringing.

"Ugh," he says, rubbing his hands together before we've even exited the building. "I _hate_ being cold. Hate it. It's the worst."

"Really?" I can easily think of at least a dozen things I dislike more than being cold. Spending early mornings out in the forest with the temperature far below zero is perhaps not my most _favourite_ thing in the world but it's more of an inconvenience than anything else. Peeta, however, has a look about him like he's bracing himself for a torturous walk back to the bakery.

"Yeah," he confirms with a bit of a scoff. "I mean it. I would rather be too hot, or overly tired, or in pain, or nauseous, or hungry even… Anything but cold."

"I hope for your sake then that whoever you end up marrying will be talented at knitting," I say, biting back a smile as he stops right in front of the doors and takes a deep breath, clearly stalling.

"Oh excuse me, what's to say _I_ can't knit like a boss?" he says, and I honestly don't know what amuses me more. The mental image of Peeta Mellark knitting by the fireplace or the archaic phrase he just used.

"I hope you can, for your project-self's sake, because I sure can't."

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, giving me a sly smile. He then pushes the door open and waits for me to walk outside before following, groaning loudly at the ice cold winds that hit us the second we set foot outside.

"So can you actually knit?" I ask, trying valiantly not smile at his discomfort which is so obvious it borders on comical.

"I can learn," he offers after a moment's pause, and at that I do let out a short laugh. "Don't laugh at me," he says, wrapping his arms around himself for more warmth. "I bet if I put my mind to it I could knit with the best of them in just a few short weeks."

"If you say so."

"And if you're nice I'll even knit something for you, dear project-wife. Little hats for your arrowheads or something."

I give in fully to laughter, picturing what he is describing, and my laughing seems to infect him too to a degree. He starts rattling off more things he would knit for me in the make believe world of our project marriage, each thing more sillier than the other, and somewhere around at tube-shaped hat for my braid to tuck into and knitted snares we reach the fork in the road where he goes in one direction and I in the other. We stop for a moment, my laughter fading after a second or two, and we stand there facing each other. The ice cold wind hits us in gushes, some bringing whiffs of snow from the piles that line the streets, and the curls on Peeta's head seem to be dancing around with the wind. It's dark out, an overcast sky above us keeping any stars from shining, not to mention keeping the moonlight away. The streetlamps here in town still have electricity but they won't for more than maybe half an hour more. The cold, and especially the wind, is keeping anyone inside who doesn't need to be out and about at this hour. I imagine most families here in town are getting ready to sit down at the dinner table and a pang of envy hits me. Unlike Gale I don't begrudge merchant people the meals they enjoy, seeing no point in wishing they should go hungry as well, but I do envy them. Peeta likely has a hot meal waiting for him back at the bakery. I think of the smell of freshly baked bread which will greet him the moment he sets foot inside his house. Right here, right now I can think of nothing more desirable than living in a bakery, and I think to myself that whoever Peeta marries is going to be a very lucky woman indeed.

Peeta is visibly shivering, shifting his weight from foot to foot at a brisk pace and slamming his feet down hard on the ground as he does in an effort to try and keep warmth in them. Even though he's wearing gloves he's stuck his hands in his armpits and every ten or twenty seconds he shimmies. We're close enough to the streetlight that I can see that his cheeks are bright red, as are his ears. I should let him get moving, let him get back to that warm and delicious-smelling place that is his home.

"Well, good work today," I say.

"Yeah, thanks, you too," he smiles, his bottom lip trembling as is he's trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "You did most of the work." We linger for another half a minute or so, smiling softly at one another. "Thanks for today, Katniss. Looking forward to next week when we find out if Cookie Crisp is a boy or a girl."

"Get home before your brain freezes over," I say, rolling my eyes at his persistence with that name.

"See you tomorrow," he chuckles, raising one hand in a wave of sorts, and then he's on his way, loudly shivering as he goes.

I draw in a deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth, just barely making out the small cloud the air forms. I have to admit to myself that while cold generally doesn't bother me I'm not much for cold winds blowing. I quicken my pace by taking longer strides but something makes me stop for a second and look over my shoulder at Peeta's retreating figure, visible for only a second before he turns a corner. I realize that I was wrong a few minutes ago. Peeta's future wife won't get to live at the bakery. Only Scotti's wife will have that privilege. Peeta will sooner or later have to make a new home for himself, someplace which doesn't smell of bread fresh from the oven or any of the many delicacies I've smelled when stopping by to trade. Apple pies, chocolate cakes, oatmeal cookies… I don't know why exactly but it makes me melancholy to think of Peeta working at the bakery every day and then having to leave those wonderful smells behind and head out into the cold winter night.

But that isn't accurate either. He won't be working in the bakery. And yet no amount of logic can make me feel anything than that it is wrong to take the boy with the bread away from where the bread is being baked.

* * *

"Katniss!" The pleased expression on Hazelle's face as she opens the door brings a comforting feeling. It's not often that I come to the Hawthorne home nowadays – mostly it's Gale who seeks me out – but his mother doesn't show any signs of reproach. "How nice to see you," she says, laying an arm around my shoulders and leading me inside. "Come in, avoid that dreadful cold."

"Thank you," I say in earnest. I forgot to take my scarf and the wind felt as if it were targeting me because of this. Stepping inside the Hawthorne home, always much warmer and homelier than my own, feels really nice. I set my bag down on a chair in the entrance hall and begin to remove my outerwear.

"You just missed dinner," says Hazelle, taking my jacket to hang it up. "I can warm some up for you."

"No, thank you," I say, unable not to smile warmly. Gale's mother is such a kind soul and I know that her offer is genuine on all levels, but I would never accept it. Whatever food they have left needs to go to their own mouths, either as school meals for Rory, Vick or Posy or as lunch for Gale to bring to the mines tomorrow. "The offer sounds lovely, but I already ate with Mother and Prim."

"Well if you change your mind, you just say the word."

"Thank you," I say again, giving her a smile and hoping she knows how much I appreciate these gestures.

"Mother who's at the door?"

I smile slightly at Rory's voice breaking as he calls out to his mother. It's strange that he is growing up and becoming a man, almost as strange as Prim maturing into a young woman. Hearing Rory's voice break while shouting like that reminds me of Gale's voice doing the same when his voice was changing and he needed to call out warnings or instructions when we were in the woods. I remember that part of me wanted to tease him about it, but we didn't have that kind of relationship yet at that point. We had only known each other for six months or so.

"It's not for you, Rory!" Hazelle calls back. "Go back to your homework!" She lowers her voice to me. "Same thing almost every evening. He keeps hoping one of his friends will stop by and get him out of having to study."

I smile but I don't find it very amusing. Rory doesn't like studying because he feels it's a giant waste of time. He knows where he will end up working and even at age fifteen he feels like he can see his whole life ahead of him already, and that dampens his spirits. I'm thankful my sister doesn't view the future that way. I couldn't bear feeling her disillusionment before even having come of age.

"So where is Gale?" I ask, picking my game bag up again. "Is he helping the boys and Posy with homework?"

"No," sighs Hazelle, a weary expression coming over her features. "He hardly ever helps them with school anymore. He wants to, of course, but he's exhausted when he gets home from the mines." Her expression changes into one of concern, which in turn makes me feel worried. "Most nights I have a feeling he's just counting the hours until he can go to bed. Too exhausted to do much more than sit on the couch, and maybe read Posy a story or two." Then she smiles again but it seems forced. "Which is why I am so glad to see you here! I think seeing you will be just the cheering up he needs." She nods in the direction of their sitting room. "He's in there, on the couch. I will try and keep the others in the kitchen for now so you two can have some privacy."

I wonder what it is she imagines I came here to do or talk about, but since it's not really important I shrug it off and walk quietly to the archway that leads from the hall to the sitting room. I stop there for a moment, one hand on the doorpost and supporting my weight against it. Gale is on the couch, just as his mother predicted. He looks completely spent. As if washing up and eating dinner was all he had energy enough left to do and now his reserves have been emptied. He sits slumped, his rear close to the edge of the seat and his back resting more against the bottom cushion than the back one. His legs are wide apart, his arms spread out as well, and his head leaned back. I can tell from his breathing that he isn't asleep but his eyes are closed and if I were to walk off to the kitchen instead he probably will drift off any second now. That's not good. He shouldn't nap now – if he does he will have trouble falling asleep once he's in bed, and that will only create a bad pattern.

"Cougar!" I cry. Gale startles, flies to his feet even, and momentarily looks around as if he expects to find a wild cat pouncing at him in his own home. It only takes him a second to get his bearings and when he sees my laughing face he scowls.

"That wasn't anywhere near funny, Katniss," he says, slumping back down on the couch.

"What is going on?" asks Hazelle, coming out from the kitchen with a wet glass and a towel in her hand.

"Nothing," I assure her. "I apologise. I was just getting your son more alert."

Hazelle smirks at me and returns to the kitchen. I've stopped laughing but I'm still chuckling a little as I walk up to the couch and take a seat beside Gale.

"I mean it, Katniss," he says, giving me a displeased look. "Not even almost funny."

"I'm sorry," I lie, giving him the kind of sweet smile I never give anyone except as a joke. "I come bearing gifts. Am I forgiven?"

"You're forgiven if you come bringing kisses," he says in a lower voice, leaning in to capture my lips with his own.

"How about you get both?" I offer, placing my bag on the coffee table and lifting up my thermos from it. "Mother sends some special tea she made just for you. It's supposed to be energizing."

"Oh I could definitely use that," he remarks, shifting to sit more properly. He takes the thermos, gives me a small smile and a thanks, and pours the beverage into the empty mug that was already on the table. "Just a minute, I'm going to go get sugar."

"There's honey in it already."

"My girlfriend thinks of everything." I accept his kiss, not bothering to correct him. It was my mother who thought of adding the honey but I don't think it matters. He lets out something that seems to be a cross between a yawn, a sigh and a groan, stretching his arms as far as they can stretch. "Seriously, though. I feel much more energized already." As his arms come back down he wraps one around me and uses the other to grab the tea mug, "Just you coming over is like getting an injection of adrenaline or something." He sips from the tea and hisses as he burns his tongue.

"Careful," I caution. "Hot tea tends to be hot."

"No kidding." He blows on the beverage, smirking at me from the corner of his eye. "But what is a burnt tongue in the grand scheme of things? It will be back to normal in a day or so." Setting the mug down on the table he shifts so we're facing one another more. He smiles at me tenderly. "It means the world to me that you came by to cheer me up – and that you brought your mother's special tea with you."

"Anytime," I assure him.

"You're the best girlfriend ever."

I can't feign accepting the compliment as having any measure of truth at all to it, but I don't think Gale notices. He's too busy pressing his lips to mine, his tongue prodding at the seam of my lips, asking permission to enter.

"Gale, your family is in the next room," I point out, pulling away slightly. I make sure my tone is soft and sweet, not wanting his fatigue to prompt another argument.

"They know about us," he spells out to me in an amused voice. "None of them, save my little sister, probably believes I've never kissed before."

"Yeah, well even so. I wouldn't feel comfortable if Vick or Rory or, heaven forbid, Posy were to walk in and see us." My hand finds the nape of his neck and begins to massage the tenseness there. Gale cranes his neck in the other direction to give me more access, groaning softly as he does. "We can behave when we are around other people, can't we?" I say sweetly. "There are other things we can do except kiss."

"There are a number of a _lot_ more fun things we can do," he answers, giving me a suggestive look. "Although none of them would be suitable around other people either." I giggle at his joke and a new look comes over his face. A look that's mostly surprise but also approval and interest. "You seem to be in high spirits today."

"Yeah," I smile. "I suppose I am."

"Any reason in particular?"

"No," I shrug, kicking off my shoes so I can pull my feet up on the couch. "I've been in a good mood all week. That's all."

Gale smiles at me like I just told him food would start raining from the sky. His index finger traces a line across my cheek and down to my mouth but then leaves my face.

"I'm glad you're much happier these days."

Am I? I hadn't given any thought to it. I suppose I am, at least compared to my normal gloomy mood during mid-winter. I can't answer as to the reason why and Gale doesn't ask, so I leave the matter be.

"So how has life in the mines been treating you so far this week?" I ask instead.

"There's a topic I do _not_ want to discuss," he answers, giving me a pointed look. He takes a long sip from his mug, smacking his lips afterward. A drop of tea runs down the mug and drops onto the old, worn coffee table. "Suffice to say, my spirits have not been as high as yours." He gives me a smile anyway. "I don't want to talk about work. I'd much rather talk about you. And about your family. How is Prim doing?"

This gets me talking. It's been a while since we've had any longer conversations regarding my sister, and considering what stage in her life she's in right now I feel I have more fodder for discussion now than I've ever had before. Gale knows and understands what it's like for me. He's got not one, but _three_ younger siblings. Vick and Rory are strange enough for him to see mature into young men but I can only imagine how hard it will be for him when little Posy gets to that age. I can't even imagine it myself. I've known her since her infancy and she will always be the baby of the Hawthorne family in my eyes. Seeing as how she's the only girl I strongly suspect her older brothers will view her as such, too.

While we talk Gale finishes his tea and begins to seem more awake. But I can tell how weary he is. Despite his earlier insistence, and his genuine appreciation of the tea, I wonder if it was such a good idea for me to stop by after all. But when I voice that thought he quickly shuts me down.

"Katniss you coming to visit me gives me more energy than anything else has since the new year!"

"Then you must really have been a wreck these past three weeks."

"You could say that," he chuckles. We're sitting close on the couch, warm and relatively comfortable for once, so unlike our cold mornings out in the glade. His eyes stare into mine with so much heat and affection. They remind me a little bit of Peeta's eyes, though Gale's have the same ordinary grey colour as my own. Perhaps it's the colour difference but they don't seem quite as vibrant and intense as Peeta's. "Now that you're here though… Everything is all better."

"I haven't done anything," I point out. "Except bring the tea. Which my mother made, not me. And you still seem exhausted."

He gives me another kiss, this time without trying to bring his tongue into it. His lips linger against mine for several seconds, though.

"Don't you know that you don't _have_ to do anything?" he asks in a low voice. "Just you being here is more than enough." His smile widens and he pulls back a bit to set his now empty mug down on the coffee table, still keeping his eyes on me. "To be honest, Catnip, I've been hoping every night that you would stop by for a visit."

"Oh." I smile without mirth, feeling guilt-ridden at hearing his words. Every night for how long? I almost never come by for a spontaneous visit. Is it so wrong to assume that unless we've already made plans to meet up, or he comes by to see me, he wants some time alone to rest?

"You are always welcome here, babe," he says, moving to sit further back on the couch, leaning back against the cushions. "Never forget that. My girlfriend can come spend time with me whenever she wants to, no matter what." He cocks his head and gives me a teasing look. "It's part of being in a relationship – seeing and supporting each other at our worst. One of the best parts, in fact."

I try not to scowl, feeling not at all appreciative of receiving instructions on the pros and cons of being in a relationship. At the tip of my tongue I have a teasing reply ready about how I should take that pearl of wisdom and incorporate it into my school project but I think the better of it. Not that Gale and I never tease each other, but it doesn't seem to come as naturally now as it did a few months ago.

Instead I try to make my smile seem as genuine as possible as I recall something I was intending on relaying to him.

"By the way, Gale, you will never guess what they brought up during project hour on Monday."

"No, what?"

"All of a sudden, thirteen weeks in, they give Peeta a hard time finding a new job because he's project-married to someone from the Seam."

"You're kidding!" He seems both amused and pleased to hear this and my smile reaches my eyes again. Hearing this seems to have given him an injection of energy surpassing that of my presence or the tea and he immediately asks me to elaborate.

"Well, our project baby is due on Monday and they gave Peeta the boot from his project job," I begin to explain.

As I tell him about this new development I lean back too, feeling his arm comfortably wrapping around me. I tell him everything that happened, at least concerning our job hunt, but there are many things I omit. Things that have absolutely nothing to do with the subject of merchant prejudice against the Seam and things that might get him riled up – such as anything that focuses on Peeta. My reaction to the idea of him working in the mines, in particular. I have nothing to hide from my boyfriend but I don't want to ruin the good mood he's in by giving him details he doesn't need to have.

"It's about damn time," says Gale finally, when I'm finished talking. "The one thing that's been sorely missing from your project of preparations for handling life is _realism_."

"Gale you only know a few scant details about the project," I point out with a smile and one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, but what I do know is that it hasn't been realistic," he insists. "And I think it's good that these things are finally brought up."

"You may think it's good but it made things quite inconvenient for us," I remark. "And Peeta got pretty irritated."

"Yeah I bet," scoffs Gale.

"He thinks it's lunacy that something like that should have an impact on what jobs he gets," I continue, ignoring Gale's comment and its implications.

"Katniss he's merchant. He's not used to things not going his way, and when they do he feels like it's all so unfair and gets upset."

" _Gale_!" I complain, sitting up straight on the couch. "Please, could we have a conversation about this without you going there? I like working with Peeta, he's efficient and he's got lots of good ideas."

"Uh-huh. Such as telling you exactly what he thinks you want to hear on matters like this. Oh come on, Katniss, don't leave!"

"I didn't bring this up so that you could start insulting him, or Madge by extension for that matter," I say, and I'm just about to get up from the couch when Gale's hand grabs my arm, firmly but carefully.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Okay? I'm sorry." I look at him for a moment, debating with myself whether or not to leave, but he does look genuinely remorseful. "It's no excuse but I've been so tired lately, and even though I know you would never be unfaithful to me it still sucks to think about the guy who gets to spend all that time with you. I miss being able to spend time with you."

Hearing this I soften and sit back down, feeling a little bad for snapping at him when he's so clearly exhausted. The least I could do is not get angry with him over things that shouldn't matter all that much. I pull my feet back up on the couch and lean back, feeling Gale relax as he leans back with me and wraps his arm back around my shoulders. I rest my head on his shoulder and draw a deep breath, breathing in the familiar scent of smoke and apples. His hand draws circles on my upper arm and it feels rather nice.

"I'm sorry I got mad," I say.

"I'm sorry I gave you reason to."

"The project more than halfway through. Ten more weeks and then we're done. Peeta and I probably won't see each other again after that."

"You sure about that?"

I think about the question, wondering why he's asking it. Do I really believe Peeta and I will go back to not speaking to one another, perhaps just nodding at each other in greeting when we pass one another in the hallway? Is that what I want? Does it even matter? School ends this summer and after that we won't see each other anymore, except for every now and then when Gale and I are trading at the bakery.

Taking Gale's hand in my own I intertwine our fingers and try to give the impression that my focus is on him, though my mind stays on the question he asked, which I have yet to give an answer to. The truth is I will miss spending time with Peeta. I don't have many friends and under other circumstances perhaps he and I could have developed a real friendship. I think about our interactions this week and the way it felt looking into his eyes. Logic dictates that I should want to distance myself from this once I can, because playing with fire never brings anything good. But the truth is I dread having to let go of the way it feels being in his company – the easy companionship, the laughter and yes, those looks.

But I can't tell Gale that. So instead I do something I never thought I would do, especially now that he is my boyfriend. I look him in the eye and I lie.

"As soon as the project is over Peeta will go back to playing with his friends and I will go back to playing with mine. And that's just fine with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! Feedback is much appreciated =)
> 
> Tune in next time, when tempers will be flaring and, of course, they get the scenario with all things baby.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up too long and was then scaled back. I think I caught all formatting stuff along the way but if you find anything that looks odd, don't hesitate to let me know =). Hope you'll enjoy! I know the story is slow-moving and I can only hope you'll want to stick around while it lasts. Right now it's really more about the project, with Everlark developing and growing in the background. I can only hope it isn't boring - either way, I'm glad that everyone reading this right now has stuck around this long.

I wake up on Monday morning with a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. An odd mixture of trepidation and curiosity. Today is when we get the next part of the scenario, specifically the part dealing with the birth of our fictional child. Even though it's all completely fictitious I can't help but feel discomfort and apprehension about more or less pretending to give birth to a baby. It feels like an intrusion of my privacy. What gives our teachers the right to decide I will be having babies, and even which gender they will have? It's intimate and I don't like thinking about it, much less writing things about it that my teachers will then read – and _grade_ me on, to boot. It's only the faintest bit intriguing to find out what baby Cookie Crisp – oh great, now _I'm_ using that name too – will end up adding to the project. A whole lot of problems, no doubt. We get absolutely none of the good parts about parenthood, which from what I hear seems to have a lot to do with babies smelling great and feeling very soft. I don't think the babies I've met have smelled anything special, but I know better than telling that to a new parent.

Prim is still asleep curled up next to me in our bed, her fair hair fanning out on the pillow. I don't have to wake her for another twenty-five minutes. I woke up early, probably because of my mixed feelings about today. Whenever I dread something, and the few times I've really looked forward to something, I've woken up early for some reason.

Careful not to wake my sister I scoot down to the foot of the bed and quietly step down onto the ice cold floor, cringing at the touch. A floorboard creaks under my weight as I move quietly to the dresser and collect my underwear and a clean shirt from the bottom drawer. Picking up my pants from the back of the chair I press the clothes to my chest and tiptoe out of the room, keeping Buttercup from entering then bedroom with the help of my foot. I won't let him hop up on the bed with Prim and wake her up. He gives me a look full of contempt and parks his ass on the floor, unleashing a large, whiny meow before giving me a look that's dramatically forlorn.

"Oh quit the act," I hiss at him. He hisses back at me and then directs another pitiful meow at the bedroom door. Growling under my breath I put my clothes down on the nearest available surface and pick him up, carrying him under my armpit. "Suit yourself, you mangy thing. Ugh, how much do you weigh? Why do I let my sister waste money on food for you when clearly you're the second best hunter in the house." That earns me another hiss. "Yes, I said _second_ best." Opening the back door with my free hand I feel Buttercup begin to squirm as he realizes where this is heading. "You brought this on yourself. If you had shut up I wouldn't have been forced to do this." Grabbing him with both hands I send him on a short flight into a large pile of snow next to the front porch, where he will land relatively softly. The icy porch is much colder under my bare feet than the bedroom floor was and the second the cat has left my grasp I'm retreating back inside as fast as possible. Once inside I turn to close the door, just in time to see Buttercup emerge from the pile of snow. He shudders to get as much snow off himself as possible, looks at me and gives me yet another hiss, then sticks his nose in the air and walks off with as much dignity as he can muster. "Yeah, whatever," I tell him. "Stay away for a long time, okay?"

I wash myself and get dressed, shivering in the chilly air. At least there was no hard wind blowing when I let the cat out. Hopefully it won't feel so cold today when walking to and from school, and I will be able to hunt and bring home something good to eat. I brush my hair, holding the comb in my mouth while I put my hair up in a backwards braid, mostly just to get a bit of change from my usual look. By the time I'm done I've still got fifteen minutes before I have to wake Prim up so I head into the kitchen and fill up the kettle with water. We have some tesserae grain bread and that will do for breakfast. While I'm settling the table I hear a door opening and my mother's footsteps approaching. I don't look up when she enters the kitchen, wondering to myself how come she doesn't get up in the morning and prepare breakfast for her youngest daughter. Why can't she take more responsibility for running the household? What would she do if I actually did get married next summer and left the house?

"Good morning, dear," she says to me.

"Good morning." The kettle boils and I walk over to take it off the stove, still without looking at her. "I let the cat out."

"I heard him before."

And yet she stayed in bed, running the risk of the stupid cat waking up Prim and robbing her of nearly half an hour of sleep. It's not like Mother needs to get that rest time. She can go back to bed the moment we leave for school. No doubt she took for granted that I would deal with it, and if it hadn't run the risk of disturbing Prim I should have just ignored it and left it for Mother to deal with. I reach up to grab the homemade teabags from the second highest shelf in the cabinet, noting to myself that I'm not getting any help preparing breakfast either.

"Do you mind giving me a hand?" I ask dryly, nodding at the cabinet where we keep the mugs. She springs to action, although 'springing' is not quite the right word since she slowly walks across the room, but at least it's something.

"Looks like we'll have decent weather today," she remarks. I hum something in the back of my throat in acknowledgement. "Would you bring me back some willow bark when you go out into the woods after school?"

"Sure," I say, keeping in a sigh. I hand her the teabags and she puts one in each mug before setting one mug by each plate. Grabbing the kettle I walk over to the table and fill the mugs up with hot water. "Do we have any sugar left? Or honey?"

"I'll check."

I look at my watch and determine that it's almost time to go wake Prim, and it's best if I do it myself. If I ask Mother she might very well decide this is a good time to sit beside Prim on the bed, talking quietly to her about what she dreamt this night and what her day will hold. Not that I begrudge my sister a gentle first few minutes of being awake, but we have to get ready for school and Prim has her goat to feed.

"I'll go get Prim," I say before Mother can think to volunteer for the job. I look her up and down, annoyed at seeing her in her old, worn, faded pink robe. "You should go get dressed. In your room, so Prim can have the bathroom."

"Yeah," she nods, looking upset for some reason. I try hard not to roll my eyes.

* * *

When I get to school I notice that Madge isn't there. She is home tucked into bed, ill with the flu. I take a seat at the back of the classroom and wonder how sick she is and if she will be gone the whole week – or possibly longer. The few times when Gale has been sick I've always gone over to his house with some herbal remedy my mother prepared, but the idea of me going over to the mayor's house with some medicine from the Seam – even if it was prepared by a woman merchant born – is ludicrous. If anyone in District 12, other than Haymitch Abernathy, has the means to get factory made medications it's the mayor. My presence at Madge's house would only be inappropriate and make her parents uncomfortable. It makes me feel bad to know that I'm completely useless when my only female friend is ill and right from the get-go my spirits are dampened. It doesn't get much better when the last thing our teacher does before letting us go off to lunch is to declare yet another team assignment for English class, which is right after lunch. We've always had to work in pairs for various projects and assignments but I feel like they're becoming more and more frequent these days, as if the school system is desperate to prepare us for working with others once we become employed somewhere. Typical though for this to happen when Madge is home sick.

I make a decision not to let this turn of events affect me. Instead of feeling displeasure at having to work with somebody other than Madge my eyes and my thoughts go towards Peeta. From where I'm sitting, far back in the room, I can tell he's still taking notes from class while smiling and joking with his merchant friends. Good. If he hasn't started packing up his books yet then he's not going to be done until most of our classmates have already left the room – including his friends. I don't bother with trying to create an excuse for why I'm staying behind while the others leave. I doubt anyone of them will even notice or care. I let my eyes drift towards Peeta over and over while I sit on my desk and wait. It would be just typical if he actually got his belongings in order fast this time and left before the room has cleared out.

Finally he seems to be about done, and we're actually the only two students left which is perfect. I hop down from the desk and walk over to him, actually feeling a bit excited. I have fun working together with him and I know for a fact that what he may lack in physics or chemistry he more than makes up for in English. I reach him just as he's putting his backpack on, doing so with ease even though it's full of books and probably very heavy.

"Hey you," I say. Apparently he didn't hear me coming because he startles to the point where he almost drops his backpack, and the wide-eyed look he gives me when he turns around is so cute it borders on comical. I only just barely manage to keep myself from breaking out into a smile.

"Oh! Hey!" he exclaims, taking a seat on his desk in what seems like an effort to calm a fast-beating heart. To his credit he doesn't do that annoying thing where people try to hide an absurdly obvious reaction. "I didn't hear you coming. Kind of scared me there, Katniss."

"I'm sorry."

"God, those deer and hogs and turkeys and whatnot must not stand a chance," he says, shaking his head lightly. "One moment everything's fine and dandy, the next they're grazing in the big forest up in the sky."

"I wouldn't be much of a hunter if my prey could hear me coming from several feet away."

"True, I suppose. So might I ask what casts me in the role of your prey today?"

I feel like I might be blushing, though I'm not sure. The way he said it just… affected me, giving me that delicious yet dangerous feeling that seems to run through my whole body like lightning. The fact that he's smiling at me doesn't make it much easier to form a coherent response that's not just getting my intentions out there but that keeps the banter going. I'm saved by our teacher, whose voice interrupts us and truthfully startles me a little. I had forgotten she was even here still.

"Alright, you two. You have an entire lunch hour to have whatever conversation you're having, so have it somewhere else. I want to close up and go eat."

"Absolutely, ma'am," says Peeta, getting down from the desk. "We'll be out the door in ten seconds, I promise." He smiles at me. "Want to talk over lunch?"

I mull it over for a second. This isn't the kind of conversation that takes a full hour to discuss, or even the length of time required to eat a meagre meal, or even the time it takes to get to the lunch room. I was just going to ask him the question and then head our separate ways. But while I certainly don't mind eating alone it would be nice having his company, and if we are to work together in English class right after lunch then why go our separate ways now just to meet back up later?

"Sure," I say, a small smile on my lips.

"Alright then."

We walk down the hallway towards the eating area, neither one of us speaking. There's a small smile on Peeta's lips and a couple of times he glances at me from the corner of his eye. Then I start to feel awkward and decide I would much rather have this conversation without the rest of the school listening in. It's not that I feel embarrassed asking him, or even that I'm worried he will say no, but asking the question still makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.

"So… What do you think about the teaming up thing we'll be doing in English class?" I not-too-gracefully ask him.

"Well, I-" Peeta begins before being cut off by Mallory Grey who comes up to us seemingly out of nowhere and throws an arm around his shoulders.

"He's taken," she informs me, her eyes locked on Peeta and a far too cutesy smile on her face, barely acknowledging me with so much as a glance. "You can go away now."

"Excuse me?" I scowl.

"You're discussing the thing for English class?" she says in a tone that suggests it's nothing short of hilarity that I would do something like that with Peeta. While she talks her hand begins to play with a lock of his hair, twirling it around her finger, and he visibly flinches. "Or just having lunch? Well isn't that special? Either way, like I said - he's taken, so shoo!"

"Mallory!" exclaims Peeta, shrugging off her arm and giving her an irate look. He moves away from her and closer to me but I'm really annoyed so I step aside further.

"Peeta I need you, and any girl from the Seam can't be worth that much of your time," she replies haughtily, her fingers touching his chin. " _Love_ the late season beard, by the way."

" _Mallory_!" he snarls in response, stopping and crossing his arms while giving her a glare that's far more unpleasant than anything I ever think I've seen from him before. His strong jaw is clenched, his brow deeply furrowed and the blue of his eyes seems to have turned a shade darker. He then turns to me, softening his expression. "I'm sorry Katniss. Never mind her. Let's have lunch, like we said."

Feeling both humiliated and angry I eye them both, trying to understand what just happened and how it happened so out of nowhere. I want to tell Mallory Grey to make herself scarce, or perhaps go walk into the fence when it's electrified. But I don't. She's clearly got a huge interest in Peeta and what right to I have to stand in her way? I'm not single, I have no claims on him for my own part. And I certainly don't want to stand here and be involved in what is bound to turn into quite the scene if I don't leave. If Mallory wants to intimidate me I will be damned if I give her the satisfaction of playing along. So I cock my neck, give them both my most indifferent look and shrug my shoulders.

"I had nothing important to talk about. Just thought you looked lonely. That doesn't seem to be the case anymore. Enjoy your lunch. I'll see you during project hour, Peeta."

I try telling myself that it's actually a relief that I don't have to sit across from Peeta at one of the tables, possibly with his crowd of friends even, and unpack what passes for a lunch for me today while the merchant kids enjoy what is actually a meal. I try telling myself that it doesn't matter if I talk to Peeta anyway, or who I will work with in English. I've been paired up with a few the Seam kids in our class at one point or another, and occasionally with a merchant kid as well, and I've done fine enough those times. I don't need to be partnered with Peeta Mellark. It was just a thought, an idea, but not one I'm going to get into a fight with Mallory Grey over.

I hear Peeta call my name as I stride towards my usual table. I resist the strong urge to turn around and make sure he isn't following me. As I sit down and try to summon any interest in the lunch I packed I spot Peeta taking a seat at a table with his usual crowd of people – the last seat, meaning Mallory can't sit with them. His back is turned to me so I can't tell if he looks annoyed or upset. I scowl even more and try to see the positive – at least with my current state of mind I could care less that my lunch is practically non-existent. I begin to chew my meagre meal, not really feeling what it tastes like, and keep my eyes firmly glued to my lunch. I don't want to catch any glimpse of Mallory and I don't want to look at Peeta right now either. He didn't do anything wrong per se, but that doesn't make me feel any less belittled.

For the first time in a long time I begin to see what Gale has been talking about all these years. Town people don't see Seam people as equal in value. Mallory doesn't think it matters how she speaks to me or acts around me. For all I know she even thought she was saving Peeta from the social disgrace of sitting with me during lunch for all others to see. It's humiliating to think about and I desperately want to force myself not to. I reach for my bottle of water and take a few sips. The food seems to be growing in my mouth and I need something to wash it down with. I recall what Gale has been saying about the tesserae system, that it is designed to create mistrust between us and the merchants. Maybe there is something to it. Seam kids are forced to sign up for tesserae in much larger numbers than town kids. In a way, why shouldn't kids like Mallory feel that her Seam classmates are worth less than she is? The very system is telling merchant people from their early childhood that our lives don't matter as much as theirs do because the government designed it in a way that assures that the odds will be far more in their favour. Under such circumstances it's no wonder why merchants and Seams are rarely friends, and even more rarely lovers. It's true that my closest female friend is the mayor's daughter but Madge is the only girl in our class as withdrawn as I am, so that makes sense. Peeta, on the other hand, has no earthly reason to want to be friends with somebody like me.

And right this moment I hate him for it.

* * *

When we are dismissed from our last class before the project I don't wait for Peeta. I gather my things, walk straight past him without giving him as much as an acknowledging look and then I head to the bathroom. I don't really have to go but even though I don't feel like making pleasant chitchat with him for ten minutes I don't want to make it seem like what happened earlier is a much bigger deal than what it was. So I go to the bathroom, just as much to tell myself that I'm not avoiding him during break as to tell him.

Splashing water on my face I look up into the old, worse-for-wear mirror and sigh at the unpleasant reflection staring back at me. I'm no great beauty but I know I'm not terrible looking either. Sometimes I wonder though how much prettier I would be with a good – and regular – diet, and the additional kilos that would come with it. I don't know why, but lately I've been finding myself comparing my own looks to those of the merchant girls, who while not well enough fed to stand a chance at obesity still eat a lot more than I do. Mallory Grey, for instance, has a nice, decently-fed appearance. No protruding collarbones or ribs, no sunken in look about her. An actual figure with curves and a bosom that I imagine guys are attracted by. Some colour on her cheeks, unlike the pasty-faced person of my reflection.

With these unpleasant thoughts still on my mind I leave the bathroom and make my way to the assembly room. Peeta is there, at our usual table, writing in his notepad with a look on his face that's hard to read. With a scowl I pull out my chair and take a seat, tossing my backpack on the empty chair in-between us. As I unzip my backpack and begin getting the things I need I feel Peeta's eyes on me but I try to ignore it.

"Hey," he finally says.

"Hi," I respond without looking up at him. I wonder if he's going to ask where I went. It occurs to me that even though I have a perfectly legitimate excuse as to why I didn't spend the break chatting with him it is not unreasonable for him to question how come I didn't simply tell him I was going to the bathroom. But he doesn't say anything about it.

"I'm sorry about before," he says instead. I hum in acquiescence but go on getting my things ready without looking at him. "She was completely out of line and I told her so."

"Peeta I don't need you to fight any battles for me."

"I don't want her to think she can behave that way and that it's fine by me. Katniss would you look at me for a second?"

"I'm trying to find my pencil case," I say, which isn't really true. I meet his eyes for a second or two to placate him. "Vision helps."

"Borrow one of my pens." He finds one and hands it over.

"No thanks," I say. "I need other stuff in that case anyway."

"I'm sorry if she hurt your feelings."

My eyes shoot to him at that comment, the look cold and harsh enough that many a brave soul probably would have looked away. But not Peeta. His calm and steady look doesn't impress me so much as it irritates me. I will not have him, nor anyone else, sit here and think that Mallory Grey possesses the power to in any way affect my feelings, and certainly not to hurt them. I feel a very unpleasant burning sensation somewhere around my chest or stomach, I can't pinpoint it exactly, but it comes from knowing that Peeta is pitying me.

"I could care less what she says or does," I say sharply. I give up the fake search for my pencil case and give him a glare. "What makes you think she hurt my feelings?"

"Because she was rude and hurtful and behaved in a way that was wholly inappropriate," he answers without flinching. "Because you're human and anyone would be hurt and offended by what transpired."

I scoff and open my notebook, turning the pages until I find the first empty one. Why won't he stop looking at me? I want to tell him that _he's_ being rude right now but doing so would only add to his suspicions.

"I think you overestimate how much I care what that girl says, thinks or does," I say instead, taking care to sound as indifferent to Mallory as I possibly can. "She's insignificant."

There's a moment's pause but it doesn't feel like the kind of natural, easy silence that can exist between us. I look up at him questioningly and find that the look he's now giving me isn't quite as approving as it normally is. He has crossed his arms and is leaned back in his chair, his eyes refusing to leave me.

"Just for the record, I'm not wildly enthusiastic about condescending behaviour on your part towards her, either. Even though she was being, frankly, a bitch."

Baffled I pause for a second before resuming my search for the pencil case, which I actually know roughly where in the backpack it is.

"I wasn't being condescending."

"No?"

"No," I say defensively.

"I don't know what you call it, then, but it wasn't nice."

Feeling more irritated now, but above all feeling bad about the implications he just made, I quickly do my best to divert the conversation from myself.

"I don't understand why you don't just go out with her."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You obviously don't dislike her as much as you claim since you just came to her defence," I point out. "And she obviously has a thing for you. So why not give her a chance and go out with her? You being so benevolent and all."

"What are you talking about?"

"You," I say, rolling my eyes. "Her. Going out together. Maybe it would lessen some of the drama, which couldn't hurt."

"Katniss, Mallory Grey is not looking to date me," says Peeta matter-of-factly.

"No?" I say, just barely resisting the urge to scoff. "Well she sure makes a very good impression of it."

"She has her sights set on Ryean," explains Peeta. "She's had a thing for him since twelfth grade but up until last spring he was dating Clara Carbone. Since he's not in school anymore and she thus doesn't come across him on a daily basis she's trying to go through me."

I stare blankly at him for almost a full minute. Could this really be true? If it is, why does it make me feel both oddly relieved and full of something resembling dread? In fact why should it matter to me at all? The love lives of the Mellark brothers should be too uninteresting to me to even register on my radar, let alone cause any feelings of any sort. Why do I keep having so much emotional confusion where Peeta is concerned?

"How does that make any sense?" I finally ask. "Why would she want to partner up for this project with _you_ if the one she wanted to possibly do it with for real is your older brother? Isn't that kind of… icky? And why would she think it would work, anyway?"

"I guess she figured that working with me on this project might land her the opportunity of coming home with me and thus being near him. Or convincing me that I should be rooting to have her for a possible future sister-in-law, and telling my brother all about it. Look, I don't know what her thoughts or plans have been and it feels wrong to speculate about another person's heart. I don't even know why I'm telling you any of this. I mean it's not like it makes a difference in your life who I date or who wants to date me. But since you're curious about it, Ryean is the Mellark she wants to get cosy with. I find her a little frightening, or to tell the truth – obnoxious – so I'm reluctant to be her accomplice but at the end of the day it's my brother's life and up to him to reject her or date her." He finally breaks eye contact and turns his attention to the envelope lying in front of him on the table. "And for the record, I don't have to be especially fond of someone to feel they shouldn't be patronised."

I scowl at him, feeling embarrassed at his chastisement. I give him a pointed look before turning my eyes to my pencil case, which I've just managed to fish out of my backpack and place on the table.

"If you don't mind I'd rather you and she and your brother and whoever else might be involved in this little drama put the whole thing on hold while you and I are working. If I have to put in extra time because you and Mallory Grey are playing little games concerning your brother I'm going to be anything but pleased."

To my surprise he seems annoyed with that comment. It's not often that I manage to annoy him but once my initial surprise has faded I quickly realize that my comment was uncalled for and fairly rude. However I don't know how to apologize right now.

"So far we've had zero overtime due to Mallory so maybe that's not a thread to pull on," he says, giving me a scowl that could match one of my own.

"All I'm saying is keep the romance drama to a minimum while we're working," I reply, trying my best to sound indifferent. I flip the page in my biology textbook and study the first random part of text my eyes fall upon.

"And all _I'm_ saying is that I haven't dragged _any_ 'romance drama'," his fingers adding air quotes to the last two words, "during our project hour, so your complaints are completely out of the left field. Mallory interrupted us during lunch, _you_ are the one who was three minutes late today and you've wasted another…" His eyes go to the clock on the wall. "Four minutes conjuring drama where there is none. If we have to work overtime this week, it's all on you." He snorts and looks at the envelope again. "You didn't even stay to get our new assignment. You just bolted out the door the minute class was over."

"I needed to go to the bathroom."

"Well I got our next scenario," says Peeta sourly, picking up the envelope by a corner and waving it about slightly. "So how about you put your accusations of wasting school time where they belong and we get some actual school work done?"

"Open it," I say, trying to hide how uncomfortable I am but knowing that I'm failing. I cross my arms on the table and lean forward, hating this day through and through. It was bad enough before this, now I've been petty and rude to Peeta with no real reason to be and I've made a fool of myself in the process. What is the matter with me these days?

"You shouldn't let her get to you like that," says Peeta, calm now, sounding like we're back on good terms with each other. My eyes go straight to him. He's just finishing opening the envelope and looks a bit solemn perhaps, but otherwise like himself. Not knowing what to say, except that I really need to apologise to him, I hark as discreetly as I can, look down at my textbook and mumble my reply.

"It's been a rough day. Has nothing to do with you, or Mallory Grey. I'm sorry I took it out on you. It was immature of me."

"That's alright," he says, looking at me as he pulls the papers from the envelope. "I know you don't like to talk about this kind of stuff, and that's fine, but for future reference I don't enjoy being a punching bag."

"I said I was sorry," I point out, meeting his eyes. I can't read the look in them and that irritates me. I still can't figure him out.

"And I accepted your apology. Want to move on? Actually get started on our work?"

" _Yes_ ," I say empathically, but instantly I think the better of it. "No. I mean, yeah, we need to get to work, but…" I look into his blue eyes and feel increasingly bad that I said those things to him. I don't know what kind of things he gets to hear at home but I'm fairly convinced that his mother doesn't exactly shower him with praise or let him off the hook when something's not to her liking. I can't shake what he just said about being a punching bag. I don't want to be a person who makes him feel bad, in any way at all. "Peeta I'm sorry about what I said. I mean it. I was unfair and I was…" I don't really know _what_ I was, which is frustrating to no end. My eyes drift, as if I expect the answer to be lying around somewhere, and I shrug. "I'm just sorry. I won't take my problems out on you again."

"Don't sweat it," he says, smiling softly now. "Water under the bridge, right?"

"Yeah," I say, daring the hint of a smile, myself. Our eyes meet again and finally it feels right looking into his eyes. "Start over? Pretend we just got here?"

"Sure." He harks and turns his eyes to the scenario. "Ready to hear all about our new adulthood adventures?"

"The long awaited birth of Cookie Crisp," I say dryly. To my delight he chuckles.

"We're going to have to help each other out to make sure we don't accidentally it that in anything we hand in," he remarks.

"Oh, we could probably get away with calling it a pet name," I say.

"Maybe," he says, looking at the papers. "Oh, first page is just for you."

"Let me see," I say, scowling as he hands the paper to me. "Oh damn…"

"What?" he asks. "What does it say?"

"Well it says… Basically, it… Ugh."

He looks at me with wide eyes.

"What?"

I glare at the piece of paper in front of me. Standardized, written on a computer and printed out with only a few blank spaces in which they've handwritten my name, and Peeta's once or twice. It's about preparing for childbirth, which is why it's only for me, and I instinctively hate it and want it out of my sight. It makes my skin crawl just to think about having to birth a child – now I have to _write_ something about it? Why is this even something that's necessary for the project? I should assume that any woman who is pregnant will have some form of conversation with her midwife-to-be, or her mother, or someone.

"They want me to write something about my… expectations and… my plan… for when I have the damn fictional baby," I finally say.

Peeta looks completely dumbfounded but to his credit he doesn't take the page back and read it for himself. I would be mortified if he did. It's just a standardized piece of paper, every girl in my class has gotten one and probably several girls for several years before me. But it feels so intimate. They are asking me – well, _telling_ me – to give serious thought to how I would want my labour to happen. Where to give birth, who to be there with me, what my thoughts are about the pain. One thing I can cross over immediately – I definitely would not want, under any circumstances whatsoever, for Peeta's mother to be there. But I don't want to think about any of the rest of it, much less write about it. I'm never going to have a baby so I have no need to think about this stuff, but I know I can't get out of it. Not without damaging my grade, and thereby damaging Peeta's.

"I wonder why they didn't give you this assignment last week?" he says, his brow furrowed.

"Does it matter?" I ask in a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"I mean, I just kind of figured… we'd be moving past the whole pregnancy part now and get to the next stage." He shrugs slowly. "Maybe they figure that just goes along with the baby arriving and all that…"

"Yeah," I sigh. I look at the instructions again and my brow furrows. I study the questions closer, Peeta sitting quietly beside me, offering neither intrusion nor suggestions. What they want to know is what my expectations are of childbirth and how I want to arrange it. I don't have to write an entire essay about this. I just have to be honest, without divulging that I have no thoughts on the matter because I'm never having babies. "Give me a pencil," I say. I hold out my hand and he places one in my palm. "Give me five minutes and I'll be all done."

"For real? You know you can just do this at home, later."

Without listening I tear out a blank page from my notebook, put the date and my name on it and give it a headline that ties it to the assignment. Then I write that I have no expectations because I don't think anyone can know what it's like before they experience it, and it will all be worth it in the end anyway. With as much pith as possible I answer the questions in a way that feels logical but has little to nothing to do with my own personal thoughts or fears. All in all it takes up about half a page and I'm quite pleased with it once I'm done. It answers all of the questions without getting too graphic and without much discussion or analysis on my part, but I don't see the need for anything like that. I even feel a bit self-satisfied when I'm done, a slight smile on my face as I put the paper and the pencil down again. My eyes go to Peeta who is busy studying another part of the scenario with a very concentrated look on his face.

"Hey," I say teasingly. "Are you proceeding without me? That's cheating."

"Actually… this page is for me," he says.

"Yeah?" All of a sudden I'm curious. What could they possibly have the boys write about? They won't be giving birth and they won't even be present when it happens, since fathers usually don't attend births in District 12 unless something has gone wrong and they need to bring the mother to a healer. "What are they asking you to do?"

"Oh, just… You know…" He shrugs evasively and folds the paper, putting it away in his notebook. "Stuff about upcoming fatherhood. I'll do it at home, later. We should proceed, find out if we're having a boy or a girl or a… giant, baby-shaped cookie or something."

"Okay…" I say, giving him a look. I hate to admit I'm curious. "Have it your way."

He pauses to scratch his chin and I'm reminded of the earlier encounter with Mallory and her comment on his beard. I have noticed that he doesn't seem to have shaved since last week but I haven't known why. She referred to it as having to do with late season something and while I do admit to being slightly curious I can't bring myself to ask about it. I scowl, feeling the same unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach as I did during lunch, and I try hard to shake it. I don't want to feel that way, and I don't even know _why_ I feel that way. Yes, it was degrading the way she treated me, but I know it was about more than that. It almost felt like jealousy, which is preposterous. There's nothing going on between Peeta and I.

Speaking of Peeta, his head is tilted to the side as he begins to read aloud. It turns out we end up with a boy child, and to my great relief they aren't asking us to write anything about the process of childbirth itself. Instead we have a week to decide what to name the baby and file everything we need to file for the birth to be considered official.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" asks Peeta. "What, they want us to put up a sign on the door or something?"

"All live births have to be registered at the Justice Building," I explain. "It's so the kid will be an official citizen of Panem."

"And eligible for future Hunger Games in a dozen years' time…"

"Right."

"Okay… Okay, well… Time to ask our parents questions again? I mean, they've done the whole registering thing. Or do you think we can get away with simply _saying_ that we've filed everything?"

I nod slowly, biting my fingernail absentmindedly.

"Maybe… But then again…" I grab my notebook, going back several pages to where we were a few weeks ago when we were looking into applying for extra money. "I was just thinking… Why don't we actually do it? Go down to the Justice Building and ask them what we need to fill out? Maybe there's a form they will allow us to copy?"

This gets his attention. His whole person seems to perk up, eyes lighting up, back straightening, his look more focused. In fact there's an intensity in his eyes for a moment that touches something inside of me, something strange yet pleasant.

"Katniss this is a fantastic idea!" he says. "What if we got to actually copy a real form, like you said? And, and we fill it out and hand it in? An official form for Cookie…" He catches himself, but not fast enough for me not to laugh. He makes a 'yeah, yeah' face and waves dismissively. "If we handed in a copy of an actual registration form, that would be amazing!"

"Then we're agreed," I smile, proud with myself for having come up with the idea.

"Come on!" says Peeta, rising to his feet so fast that his chair almost falls over.

"Huh?"

"I mean, what are we waiting for? Let's go right now!"

"We… can't," I point out, wishing he would sit back down. People are looking at us.

"Of course we can! We can argue over what we'll name the kid next week. Or heck, argue about it on the way there."

"Peeta class is over in thirty minutes," I point out, motioning for him to sit back down. He ignores me and starts to pack his things very quickly. "You have wrestling practice afterward. You can't be late for that. Remember?"

"It's just ten minutes from here to the Justice Building."

"And perhaps a forty minute wait before we can see anyone there," I point out.

"Only one way to find out, Katniss. Look, I'm going. If you want to stay here, or head home for that matter, that's up to you."

"Head home?" With a scowl I'm on my feet, packing up my things at a speed that matches his own. "No way you're doing this alone while I _head home_."

"Great, then," he grins.

* * *

My heart is pounding in my chest when we step inside the Justice Building, and nervously I look around, resisting the urge to take Peeta's hand for moral support. I hate this place. This building represents nothing but sorrow and despair, and somewhere deep down I think of all the District 12 people who work here as sell-outs. Yes, working administratively for the Capitol gives you a decent income and even a few benefits, but you're aiding our oppressors. I could never take a job here. I think I'd rather sell my body to Head Peacekeeper Cray than take a job that had me do the government's work for them. I don't mention this to Peeta, partially because it's none of his damn business in the first place and because it's not the sort of thing one can mention while inside the building, but also because I already know what kind of a reply he would offer. He would say something about how we are all people and struggling to get by and we should not judge our fellow man. More to the point, he would also say that most people in the various districts work for the Capitol – merchants excluded. And I would have to rebut that being, for all intents and purposes, forced to slave in the mines in exchange for a lousy pay and the risk of a traumatic death in the mines themselves or years of suffering from obstructive lung disease later on in life cannot be compared to a cushiony job in the Justice Building. And we would be arguing again, and my day would just get worse.

Peeta, who for once wore a hat today, removes his gloves, hat and scarf and tucks them into his jacket pockets. He stops for a brief moment to read the large sign at the entrance that shows which department is located where, and then he takes me by the arm and leads the way straight up a flight of stairs. I say nothing, and neither does he. I can tell though that he doesn't seem to appreciate the red carpet that lines the floor all the way up the stairs. Supposedly it's supposed to be something nice to walk on a red carpet but all I can think about is that it feels like walking on blood stained floors, and from Peeta's reaction I think he feels something similar.

"Alright, okay…" he mumbles when we reach the second floor. He stops and lets go of my arm, looking left and right to try and determine where we need to go. The place is actually quite deserted, only a handful of people around, which is good. No long lines to wait in, then. But it also means fewer people to ask for directions. "Okay I think it's to the right here."

"Okay," I shrug.

He takes a few steps in that direction, then hesitates. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and worries it between his teeth, eyes glancing at the ridiculously large clock on the wall. Then he reaches for my hand, grabs it tight and marches down the hall and right past a set of doors above which there's a sign that reads "FAMILY REGISTRATION". While I'm busy rolling my eyes at that Peeta pauses, runs his open hands over his jacket to smoothen it out, and runs a hand through his hair in a futile attempt at tidying it up. I then watch in fascination as he shakes his head as if to clear his mind and then adopts an expression that is practically glowing with a combination of propriety and charm.

"I can do the talking if you'd like," he says, and even his voice is different. It's lighter, somehow, and he enunciates more.

"Sure…" I say, too preoccupied with his sudden transformation to feel nervous.

"Come on, then," he says. With a smile he holds his arm out in offering, and I take it. Together we then walk up to an admittance desk that is, at least for the moment, abandoned. There's a small waiting area, complete with a couple of loveseats and a coffee machine, but nobody is here waiting so Peeta gives the bell a smack and after a minute or two a surly man comes up and pulls aside the glass window separating us. "Good afternoon," says Peeta.

"What do you kids want?" asks the man, studying us with a great deal of scepticism. "Applications for marriage licenses is down the other hall." He looks us up and down, scowl firmly in place. "And the pair of you definitely don't look nineteen to me. If the two of you are trying to pull a fast one on your parents I assure you-"

"Hear that, schnookums?" says Peeta, making my jaw drop a little. "This kind gentleman thinks you look young. What a lovely fellow!" He has a big, friendly grin firmly in place but as he turns to the surly man his tone changes. "Actually, we're not here for that. And you are correct, neither of us is old enough to get married."

"You don't say," says the man dryly.

"No, you see, we're still in school. Obviously. And we're working on a project that's designed to prepare us for adulthood and all the responsibilities that come with it. And part of that is preparing for having a baby."

His arm leaves mine and he rests them instead on the counter, leaning forward to talk to the man in a way that makes it seem like he's divulging personal information. Within a few minutes he's managed to explain how this particular part of the project works and why we're here, and simultaneously work his charm on this man by making it seem like he is in a special position to give us extra help with something that we want to take very seriously. He slyly butters him up and before it's even been five minutes I can tell he's got this man completely where he wants him. Without Peeta even having to ask the man hands me a copy of the forms you fill out when you've had a baby.

"This is so wonderful!" I hear myself saying in a voice that mimics Peeta's. I look at Peeta in my best doe-eyed fashion. "Now the teachers might finally see that we really feel this is important! Sweetie…" I feel awkward adding the last word but Peeta just grins. Turning to the man I smile sweetly. "Do you think it would be alright if we borrowed this for a minute?" I give Peeta a look on the sly, wondering if his drawing skills means he can copy this form accurately. "It would be so very helpful. We want to remember all the important parts."

"Oh, you two can keep it."

"What?" Peeta and I both say in unison.

"Nobody's going to miss it," shrugs the man.

"Yes, but… Can you actually hand out official paperwork?" I ask incredulously.

"The form won't do any harm," he points out. "Without being turned in and without an actual child it has no legal significance. There _is_ no child, right?"

"Yeah but… Just out of my own curiosity, if we _were_ to hand something like this in, or it got handed in by someone else, wouldn't that create a record of a child that doesn't actually exist?" asks Peeta.

"Not without the follow-up."

"What follow-up?"

The man reaches behind the counter and grabs a folder, handing it to me even though Peeta asked the question. It contains almost everything you need to know about registering a child into Panem's bureaucratic system. I didn't even know they had such folders.

"It's not enough to just fill in the form," the man says. "Parents have to bring their children in when they're a year old. That's when a person is officially registered as a Panem citizen, and a blood sample is collected. Then at age five the child needs to come back in for a confirmation."

"But why?" asks Peeta, looking at the folder with me. "Why that age?"

"Most who die in childhood die before age five," I tell him in an uncomfortable mumble.

"Yes that is correct," nods the man. He looks around and then leans in closer to us, lowering his voice and putting a hand on both folder and form. "The pair of you can walk out of here with both of these…" His eyes go to me. "If, maybe, you stop by my house next Sunday with, say… turkey?"

"Oh, I…" Momentarily I'm stunned. I had no idea he knew who I was. I thought he was willing to help us because Peeta wrapped him around his little finger but maybe that wasn't his main motivation. And now I'm not sure what to say, or do. Do I really want to bribe someone in order to do well on my assignment?

"You… can't guarantee anything when it comes to hunting," says Peeta once I've been silent for a bit too long. "Depends on which animals are out and about… you know."

"Well, bring me something…" says the man, now eyeing me with a little less warmth. "Something good. I've got four kids to feed."

I fight the urge to be snide and point out that he's got one of the best jobs in the entire district, a safe and stabile job that pays a steady and decent wage, but I hold my tongue. Instead I nod my head and agree to let him give me a piece of paper with his address on it. I then stop listening to his and Peeta's conversation as they wrap it all up. I take the folder and the form and move to stand behind Peeta so that I can unzip his backpack. He's got an A4 notepad, same size as the form, and I want to keep it as pristine as possible without folding it. If he's surprised or displeased with me rummaging through his backpack he doesn't let it on. I find the notepad easily, put our acquisitions away, close the backpack again and pat him on the shoulder.

"We need to hurry. You have wrestling practice in twenty minutes."

"Oh!" He turns and flashes me a grin before bidding farewell to the strange man. "Again, thank you. We are much obliged."

"Oh, my pleasure," grins the man, no doubt content now that he's looking at fresh game come Sunday. I manage a quick, awkward smile and then I take Peeta's hand and start moving towards the doors. Just as we reach them the man comes with a few final words of parting. "You make such a sweet couple. It's a shame it will never be more than a school romance. But, you already knew going in that people like you can never be together."

To my great surprise his words really hurt me, hitting me right in the chest. I see my parents before me, the most loving couple I have ever known. Hearing somebody stand here and essentially tell me that they should never have carried on with their romance is an insult. As a matter of fact it's an affront towards my very existence. And the way he says it, like he feels I don't deserve to be with a boy like Peeta. That I'm not good enough. That even though I'm the one he wants something from in return for his help he doesn't consider me worthy of loving the boy whose hand I'm holding. Rage bubbles up inside me and I'm just about to spin around, stride up to the counter and hand him back the form when Peeta speaks up.

"Love never really gave much of a damn about borders or social standing."

"Oh, to be young and idealistic again…" we hear him sigh just as the window slides shut. Then he walks away and I can't take my rage out on him. I can, however, leave the form and the folder right there on the counter, but logic tells me it would serve no purpose.

"Come on," says Peeta, his voice low, vibrating with emotion. "I need to get out of here."

"Right," I say through gritted teeth, squeezing his hand in my anger. "Your practice."

"Never mind the damn wrestling."

He opens the door and ushers me out, and together we hurry down the stairs and back out into the cold afternoon. We're both walking so fast we're practically trotting and I hardly even feel the cold winter air against my cheeks. We've gotten two blocks from the Justice Building before I even notice that Peeta's arm is wrapped protectively around my waist and he hasn't put his gloves, his scarf or his hat back on. His jaw is firmly set and there's raw emotion in his eyes that manages to shine through even though it's getting dark out and harder to see him clearly. I'm about to open my mouth and say something when another realization hits, making me stop in my tracks.

"Oh God."

The look on Peeta's face changes into something akin to worry.

"What?"

"That… That look on his face. When he first saw us. That's why he was looking at us like that. That's why he was _talking_ to us like that."

"Yeah." His answer comes curtly and he clenches his jaw, taking a deep breath.

The level of insult, especially after the day I've had so far, almost makes my eyes fill up with tears. Then Peeta's eyes meet mine and what I find in them is affinity. I don't get the sense that he feels insulted on my behalf, I get the sense that he feels insulted on _our_ behalf. Like he's ashamed that people of his social standing would view a relationship between him and a Seam girl as something that could be accepted only as a school romance. I don't know why he would feel that way and right now I need to know.

"He wasn't insulting you," I say. "He was insulting me."

"He was plain insulting."

"He insulted me by insinuating that I'm too lowly to be worthy of someone like you."

"He doesn't even know us," argues Peeta. "He has no idea what either one of us is worth."

"But he didn't insult _you_ ," I insist.

"Yes, Katniss. He did." He pauses, moving so that he stands directly opposite me. His arm leaves my waist while he puts his scarf back on and I notice he's shivering in the cold but he doesn't make a move to hurry up and get out of here. My waist feels cold without the warmth of his touch but I can't ask for him to put his arm back. So I just look into his eyes and listen. "He insulted me because… because he said what he said and did what he did even though he thought you and I were there as a real couple. He thought we were in love. And he insulted me by suggesting that my love wasn't good enough, or _real_ enough. That it doesn't _matter_ enough." He swallows and looks a bit nervous but his eyes don't falter one bit. His voice, however, indicates that he's beginning to get carried away. "If I ever were to love a girl from the Seam and be loved by her in return I couldn't give a _damn_ what anybody thinks. That love would be just as real and strong and wonderful as any other. And that man insulted me today by trying to make me feel like I would be _wrong_ to love you. And he doesn't even know us! For all he knows I could be a failure and a screw-up and a lazy idiot, and you…" He pauses, his voice and his eyes softening. "You are beautiful and strong and compassionate and you work ten times as hard as many of the town kids in our class, and you _care_ more than they do, and…" He finally falters, swallowing and looking a bit embarrassed at having just said all of that. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound… improper. I just think the guy's a sorry idiot who judges people through the eyes of a narrow-minded society."

Despite everything I can't help but feel a warm sensation in my chest. My hand finds Peeta's cheek, bristly in its unshaven state.

"Thank you," I say. I truly mean it. I don't know what it is with this boy, but he has a way of saying things like that without making me feel like it's wrong or making me uncomfortable. And his little soliloquy just now made me come to a decision. "But please, Peeta… Don't waste energy on this guy on my account. Neither of us should. He isn't worth it."

"You're probably right."

"And thank you for what you just said about me. Even though we both know I'm not at all as wonderful as you made me sound just then." I give him a smile, my thumb brushing his cheek. "I was upset with that man for finding me unworthy of you based on where in the district I was born. Truth is, though, I probably am unworthy of you. Even if you won't acknowledge your virtues." He opens his mouth, probably to protest, and I silence him with a finger to his lips. "Now run. You're going to be late if you don't. We'll start filling out the form next week."

"Yeah," he nods, fidgeting a little. "Okay. If you're sure."

"Of course I'm sure." I lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. It's strange to feel his stubble against my lips but not in a bad way. "Go! I can't be fake married to someone who's tardy!" He chuckles and backs away, keeping his eyes on me as he begins to turn. "Oh, and by the way!"

"Yeah?"

"I think I might just accidentally drop that note with that guy's address… Like, say, in my fireplace… Such a shame, don't you think?"

"That's my project wife," he laughs as he begins to run back to school. After about a hundred meters or so he calls out one last parting phrase. "And thank you for today, Katniss!"

I smile at his words but the only thing I feel inside is sadness. Regardless of my resolution not to let that man and his opinions bring me down I can't stop myself from feeling bad over it. It's not even so much the insult, but the knowledge that if this was more than just make believe, if we were doing this project together because we were sweethearts, nothing ever could come of it. Falling in love with the boy with the bread would be a futile endeavour. District 12 would never allow me to be with him.

And that, for whatever reason, makes me truly sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well initially they were supposed to name the kid in this chapter, along with some other stuff, but it's been reworked and moved to the next chapter. And no, they won't be calling him Cookie Crisp ;) Don't know what else I have to say at this point, really. I hope to hear your thoughts, as usual!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mainly focuses on issues brought up in previous chapters, and moves their project along. It's also got more Galeniss focus, so be aware. ;)  
> This might also be the last day in a couple of weeks that I have enough time on my hands to upload a new chapter, but it had to come at the cost of not proof-reading and since at one point I spliced three different scenes into one I really hope it flows properly and doesn't end up contradictory.
> 
> With those encouraging statements underway, on to the chapter!

Monday comes and to my own surprise I wake up feeling enthusiastic. I'm excited to sit down and read that folder and fill out that form and hand it in to our teachers. It's got to be the first time a pair has done something like that and it will do wonders for our grade. In fact I'm in such a good mood that my mother, my sister and Madge – who has a cough and looks pale and tired but is otherwise doing much better – all comment on it during the day. I don't reveal the reason why and they all seem to draw the same conclusion.

"I'm glad you're in such high spirits," Madge says during lunch, twirling her fork to roll spaghetti onto it. "You've been so reserved about your relationship with Gale – barely even _telling_ me about it," she adds with a pointed look. It was only recently that I told her and she was surprisingly annoyed – a little bit hurt even – that I hadn't shared that information sooner. "Now that it's out in the open I'm happy to see that you're happy about it."

"Sure," I say, not bothering to shatter her illusion on this particular subject. Why would Gale all of a sudden have me smiling all day through? That's supposed to be early relationship stuff, right? We've been together more than two months.

Finally we reach the last class of the day and Peeta and I meet up to go to our table. I try to hide my eagerness at first, keeping my face as neutral as I can only for Peeta to greet me with a look and a smile that shows me he's just as excited about this as I am. I smile back at him and we have a brief laugh, causing a couple of heads around us to turn. Peeta whistles a tune to himself as we leave the classroom and then begins his usual questions about how my weekend was and all that. I've noticed that he's been slyly adding more questions to his repertoire over the weeks. Nowadays he also wants to know about my sister and even my mother sometimes. Never about Gale, though. I haven't given him verbal permission to tell anyone that we're dating so he doesn't let on that he knows.

We reach our table and begin to get ready, unpacking everything we need. Peeta's whistling again, lifting his large notebook from his bag with a small toss included. Then he openly brings out our prized possessions, making no attempt at concealing them from our classmates.

"You should be more careful with that," I scold.

"Yeah," he snorts with a chuckle. "As if any of them have the first idea what this even _is._ " He winks at me then. "We're sitting on gold here, Katniss. And none of them know it."

This evokes another smile from me. For a moment my eyes seem to be stuck on his cheeks and chin and how his facial hair moves with his skin as he smiles, chuckles, turns serious. Then I catch myself and look at the form instead.

"Okay," I say. "Should we get started?"

"Yes we should, but…" He looks around us, now suddenly the paranoid one. "Okay, you know, I would actually… I think we should…" He looks down at my backpack sitting on the chair in-between us. He grunts, scowls, shakes his head. "Get rid of that."

"My backpack? What's wrong with my backpack?"

"Nothing, just… switch places with it."

Oh. I reach for my bag and lift it up, smoothly sliding over to that chair and setting the pack down where I was sitting a second ago. I am now right beside Peeta, able to feel the warmth radiating from him and the scent of vanilla, dill and cinnamon. It's so different from Gale's familiar wood smoke and apples – smells I've always liked because they are so familiar and comforting and partially remind me of my father, though Peeta's scent is sweeter and more enticing. I push the thought of scents from my mind and reach for the form, trying, but failing, to avoid brushing against Peeta in the process.

"Do you want to fill it out?" I ask.

"No I think you ought to. It was your brilliant idea."

"Thank you," I smile.

Together we look at the form. Clinical and formal and everything a form regarding the arrival of a new life shouldn't be. It's got several boxes where you fill out information, the text all in an old, classic kind of font I recognize as being called _Typewriter_. It doesn't look very uplifting yet forms like it contain the basic information about every human life in all of Panem. By the looks of it, it hasn't changed much in the last few decades either. Which means my parents once filled out a form exactly like this about me, and Peeta's parents did too about him. What an odd feeling that is.

Peeta harks and draws my attention to the first box.

"Should we get started?"

"Uh-huh." The first thing the form requests is the name of the father, and it's with a slight blush and an awkward smile that I write Peeta's name there. Then comes the mother's maiden name – sparing me the awkwardness of having to write _Katniss Mellark_ – and which child in the brood it is. I write that it's the first and give Peeta a glance. "Why do you think they ask that question?"

"The more closely they can monitor our lives, the happier they will be," he answers dryly. He looks thoughtful though, suggesting that he's got some other theory that he doesn't feel comfortable sharing with me while we're surrounded by classmates.

"Okay, date of birth, _time_ of birth…" I frown and worry my bottom lip between my teeth. "They didn't give us that information, did they?"

"No, I don't think so…" He grabs the contents of our latest envelope and browses through it, his eyes moving quickly from side to side as he skims the text. "Nope, doesn't say. But they gave us this last Monday, which was the… 30th of January. So why don't we use that as the date?"

"And the time of birth?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Do you have a favourite time of day?"

"What?" I say with a little laugh. "Who has a favourite time of day?"

"I do."

"Okay, like what…? 15:27?"

"No, not _that_ specific," he chuckles. "But I like dusk."

"Yeah, sorry Peeta, that's not at all helpful. Actually…" I smile slightly as I jot something down in that box. "I think I know just the right time." Peeta leans closer to see what I picked. He's so close that I can feel him vibrating with his soft chuckle when he sees it – the time when our project hour begins. "Okay, so shall we move on to the next box?"

"What's next?" he asks, looking at me instead of simply looking at the form and finding out the answer.

"Next comes the difficult question," I say, staring back into his eyes.

"And what question would that be?" he asks, his voice sounding different somehow – deeper maybe.

"What is Cookie Crisp's name going to be?"

"Oh." He grins. "Well what is so wrong, really, with Cookie Crisp? Didn't I tell you I picked it out with a boy in mind?"

"You're a loon," I say, rolling my eyes and giving him a light nudge with my shoulder.

"Fine, fine," he grins. "Just loose Cookie and keep Crisp? And if our teachers see fit to bless us with a fictional baby daughter the minute Crispy here has learned to crawl we can call her Cookie."

"Would you forget about Cookie Crisp already?"

"I'm telling you, it's what I intend to call my firstborn."

"My condolences to the future Mrs. Peeta Mellark. Come on, be serious for a minute."

"You mean you think I'm not? But okay, I can take my seriousness to the next level, for you," he nods. "You have, after all, recently pretended to give birth to my non-existent son."

"Great. So what name do you suggest? And please, let's be more creative than Peeta Jr. And no more baking puns!"

"Well what was your father's name?"

I freeze, discomfort spreading through my body. Tentatively I look at him, in this moment feeling that he's sitting too close, close enough to be able to read things on my face, in my eyes, that I rather he didn't.

"What?" I manage.

"Why not give him your father's name? I think that's kind of nice."

"No, no I…" Squirming in my seat I try to think of the right way to express to him that I most definitely _don't_ want to name the project child after my father. It feels wrong, like it would be squandering the name. Even though I'm not saving it for if I have a son for real someday. And even if I did there would be no reason I couldn't use that name still.

"Okay," nods Peeta after a moment. "You don't want to. That's fine. We'll decide on something else." He shrugs and twirls his pencil between his fingers. "The kid doesn't even exist, anyway. We could just call him whatever."

"Whatever Mellark doesn't have a very dignified ring to it," I lamely try to joke, but with so little effort to it that it falls utterly flat.

"We'll figure something out."

"Just write something. I don't care. It doesn't matter."

Peeta shrugs and leans closer to me to write on the form rather than pulling the form closer to him. His side presses up against me and I realize I ought to lean away to give him room but I stay put. If he wants the space he can move the form. He writes down a name but instead of immediately shifting back to how he was sitting before he looks at me for what must be over a minute.

"So…" he then says. "Next question?"

I nod and he leans away from me again.

"Hey Peeta!" a familiar voice then says, making us both look up at Peeta's wrestling buddy Rusty, who's come by our table. I cross my arms on the table and lean forward, covering up the form without drawing attention to what I'm doing. "How's married life treating you?"

"Hey Rusty," Peeta answers. "I'm guessing my fake marriage is going better than yours, seeing as you're not currently doing any work. Where's Jill?"

"Back at our table," answers Rusty in a slightly evasive tone, taking a seat on our table. "I had to go to the bathroom. Also, I needed a damn break. They're giving us babies now, so we've got to write essays and make lists of stuff you need and all sorts of stupidity."

"Way ahead of you there, Rust," says Peeta. "We've already become pretend-parents."

"Congratulations," answers Rusty in a slightly theatrical manner, scratching his chin which, just like Peeta's, hasn't been shaved in a while. "Is it all those sleepless nights and disgusting diapers that's causing you to be late for wrestling practice so many times lately?"

"Is that why you stopped by? To sneer at me about last week?"

"Pretty much, yeah. In all seriousness, Mellark, coach might kick you off the team if you don't become a timelier wrestler."

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks."

"Good. I'm serious about this, you know. Otherwise I wouldn't have interrupted you and the missus having a _moment_." He makes a silly-looking face and dons a cutesy tone of voice. "You two looked so _cuddly_!"

"Clearly you've never cuddled with anyone in your life," Peeta says so dryly that I almost laugh.

"Yeah, whatever, lover boy. Just make it in time for practice for the rest of your natural life, or resign to a fate of sitting on the bench, watching me win the final tournament."

"Even if I were to break both my legs you wouldn't win," teases Peeta.

"Whatever makes you feel better, Peeta." Rusty winks at us and gets up from the table. "Enjoy your fantasy love affair while it lasts. And Katniss, whatever this sweet-talker might try and tell you, merchant boys _are_ only interested in Seam girls for one reason. And it ain't getting coal dust on their underwear… even if that sometimes is a by-product."

" _Hey_!" says Peeta sternly, but Rusty has already walked away. Peeta sighs and scratches his chin, giving me an apologetic look. "Sorry about that. I honestly don't know what makes all these town kids act like classist jerks all of a sudden."

"Don't bother about it," I say. I don't want to tell him that I know the reason why, nor do I want to tell him that this behaviour isn't actually all that new.

I don't think Rusty is merely teasing when he makes his comments about Peeta and me. I believe that people who don't know our relationship to one another, and who don't know _me_ , see something different than what is really going on. They see a charming and popular merchant boy smiling and having a good time with a recluse Seam girl and they draw the wrong conclusions. Nobody asks about my relationship status so I don't talk about it, ergo they presumably think I'm single. And from there it's, in their minds at least, not a big leap to conclude that something romantic is going on at our table each week. That the looks we share, the laughter and the possibility of a friendship developing are actually about us taking a different interest in one another. The words of the man at the Justice Building last week echo in my mind. _You make such a sweet couple. It's a shame it will never be more than a school romance. But, you already knew going in that people like you can never be together_.

I wish Peeta wasn't sitting so close to me. I wish we had a barrier of backpacks and books and whatever else between us so that I could hide my state of mind from him. All I can do instead is rest my right elbow, the one closest to him, on the table and rest my cheek against it, thereby blocking my face a little bit at least. With my pencil in the wrong hand I tap lightly at the form without seeing it, pretending that I'm studying it and thinking of answers for the rest of the questions. I don't want him to know how it hurts. How humiliating it feels to have a whole class of people in the place where you live judge you as unworthy of the affections of another person. They see me as nothing more than a plaything for Peeta, don't they? What's worse, I think they suspect that what exists between us is entirely lopsided – that Peeta is looking for some slag heap fun and that I am losing my heart and daydreaming of an impossible future with a handsome merchant boy. Bile rises in my throat at the thought of it. I hate them. I hate all who presume to know what I feel. I hate the ones who pity me, even worse than I hate people like Mallory who probably think I'm amusingly pathetic. The only merchant person I don't hate right now, aside from Madge of course, is Peeta.

Peeta. They must not know him at all. Peeta is not the type of boy who would take advantage of a girl at the slag heap, much less the type of boy who would lead a girl on and get her to fall in love with him just so he could make out, or even have sex. I do feel he is better than me, too good for me in fact, but it has nothing to do with his place of birth and everything to do with the person he is. I haven't been able to fully let go of that man's words a week ago - _you already knew going in that people like you can never be together_ – and Rusty's careless dismissal just now brought all those thoughts back. What if I had fallen in love with Peeta, and him with me? What if we had then acted on those feelings and started dating and that grew into something potentially lifelong? These thoughts are theoretical, of course, since I have no intention of ever marrying and therefore have no desire to find true love. It's the principle of the thing that upsets me. That, and the knowledge that if I were to love Peeta…

I pause my train of thought just then, looking over at my merchant-born project partner who is patiently waiting for me to be ready to continue working. He's drawing something on the margin of his notepad, clearly understanding that I need a moment even if he doesn't understand the real reason why. If I were to somehow fall in love with Peeta in real life I would still be safe from marriage. I could never subject him to the fallout of marrying a Seam woman, losing his group of friends and his place high on the social ladder in our class.

Pulling myself away from these thoughts, though not bothering with trying to come up with an explanation for why I've been quiet for several minutes, I straighten my back and shift my pencil to my right hand, hark and actually focus on the form says so that we can move on to the next question. In doing so I notice what name Peeta put down for our fictional son. Despite everything, a small smile appears on my face.

"So our son's name is Hunter?"

"Uh-huh," he answers, a little smile on his face as well. "You didn't say anything about Everdeen puns. Or… Everdeen jokes, as it were."

"It's perfect," I tell him.

* * *

We end up being done with all our project work with just short of half an hour left on the clock. Peeta doesn't see much point in leaving since he won't have time to go anywhere before wrestling practice, so he decides to stay and do homework. I opt to stay as well, even though I could head out to the woods and get an early start on procuring fresh meat for dinner. Hunting can wait thirty minutes. Perhaps Peeta will need some help doing his homework. It's the least I can do. Besides, if I get started on my own homework now there will be less of that to do later.

The only school books I have in my backpack are English and arithmetic, so I choose arithmetic. While working on a particularly annoying square root problem I begin chewing on one of my nails. I don't even realize that I'm doing it until I start chewing further down and manage to cause a bleed on the cuticle.

"Damn it," I hiss, sticking the tip of the finger in my mouth and sucking on it, more to relieve the stinging than to stop the bleeding. It doesn't bleed much, but enough so that I can feel its metallic taste.

"What's up?" asks Peeta, looking up from his textbook.

"Nothing, just… some self-inflicted stupidity stuff," I reply, holding the finger close to my face to assess how long it might bleed for.

"Need a band-aid?"

"What? Oh, no thanks. It will stop bleeding in a minute. It's just a cuticle."

"Okay," he says, sounding a touch sceptic but returning his eyes to his book.

Thinking to myself that I perhaps should have accepted the offer of a band-aid I use my sleeve to wipe up the blood that has leaked out. There's not much new blood following it so maybe this is about it.

"Good thing I wore my red sweater today," I mumble, grabbing my pencil and keeping half an eye on the mistreated finger as I try and focus on my math problem again.

I notice Peeta lifting his head from his own work but he doesn't offer me another plaster. He studies me with his head slightly tilted and a friendly but not concerned-over-minor-bloodshed look in his eyes. I'm not quite sure what reason he has to look at me for this long but given that it's Peeta Mellark and he's not afraid of speaking his mind I have no doubt I'll find out soon enough.

"I haven't seen you wear red since… well since this project began at least."

He's making a note of what colour I'm wearing? What does _that_ matter? Granted red isn't the easiest colour to get a hold of in the Seam given how much it costs to buy at a seamstress' shop but by now I feel I know Peeta well enough that I don't believe he's making a comment on my social standing. I look down at the sleeve of my red knitted sweater and I get the strangest feeling as I recall the day my mother dyed the yarn. I had brought home as many dandelions as I could find with the intention of us eating them and as per my mother's instructions I had plucked them with their roots and all. Most of the roots I gather for her she uses for medicinal purposes but these roots were used to give the yarn the red colour Peeta is now commenting on.

"It's just an old sweater," I mumble, wondering if he can tell that I'm being oddly affected by this otherwise mundane conversation. I can't quite shake the connection between the flower behind my sweater and the boy remarking on it.

"It looks good on you," he says. "You usually wear mostly browns and greens and greys. Earthy colours. The red goes with your hair." I give him a look and he laughs lightly. "You know by now that I'm a painter, or try to be. I notice things like that about people." He crosses his arms on the table and leans forward a bit, still with that friendly smile in place. "Do you like red?"

"It's alright," I shrug.

"Not your favourite?"

"No, I suppose not."

"No…" He looks like he ponders it for a second and then studies me with a squint. "I'm guessing… either yellow or green is your favourite."

"Green. Definitely green."

His grin widens, as if he just got a perfect score on a surprise quiz.

"Green. It suits you. Has it always been your favourite colour or has it come with being out in the woods so much?"

"Why are you so interested in what colours I like?" I question, making sure that I don't sound unfriendly but finding his interest in the subject matter weird. There's a bit more blood on my fingertip so I stick the finger in my mouth again and suck it off.

"I told you. It's the aspiring painter in me." He shrugs a shoulder. "Besides, I feel we're becoming friends and friends share things like that with one another."

"Well… What's _your_ favourite colour?"

"Orange," he tells me without hesitation.

"Orange?" I echo. I don't think I've ever heard anyone claim _that_ as their favourite colour before.

"Yeah," he says, a touch of softness in his voice. "Like the sunset."

"The sunset has many different colours," I point out.

"It does. But I like the orange hues the best. When the sky lights up like that it just… seems like the horizon is on fire or something." He laughs a little and makes a face. "God, I can hear how cheesy that sounds…"

"A little bit cheesy," I agree. "But nice. I've never thought of it that way before. To tell you the truth I don't know that I've ever really _looked_ at a sunset before. They're just… there. They can be nice and all but I don't think about them much."

"You should stop and take a moment the next time you see one," he says. "You might find you really like it." The look in his eyes is distant, almost dreaming, suggesting a beautiful view before him that only he can see. "You know what my favourite part is?"

"Tell me."

"It used to be when there are clouds in the sky and the light hits them just right and they get that silver lining the proverb talks of. Now it's the times when whatever is on the horizon, be it a forest or some houses or something else, seems entirely dark – just a black silhouette against the cascade of colours on the sky."

I don't really know what to say as he continues vividly describing the kind of sunset he loves the best. I've never known anyone to be that fond or fascinated by it before. I find it endearing and I find I can relate to it because he is speaking of nature in a way I don't often hear people in the Seam, never mind in town, do and all of this scares me a little. It scares me that his words seem to resonate somewhere deep in my chest, somewhere I don't want anybody to be able to access.

So as soon as he seems to be finished I hark and look pointedly down at my arithmetic textbook.

"Well anyway, I, uhm…" Though I attempt to grin casually I have a sneaking suspicion it comes off more as making a wincing face. "I should try and solve this math problem before I forget what numbers were in my head a minute ago."

"Oh!" He looks apologetic and quickly turns the page in his own textbook, flushing a little. "Of course. I apologise. Didn't mean to digress like a complete idiot."

"You didn't," I say, now with a soft smile that is completely genuine and thus can't be misinterpreted, unlike the failed grin a second ago. "And you're not an idiot. Besides, it was my stupid nail biting that distracted me from the math in the first place."

"I'll make sure not to be a further distraction, then," he says, smiling at me with one eyebrow slightly raised, making me feel the strangest little ache in my chest.

"And I promise not to distract you further, either," I answer, hating my voice for having a stupid quiver to it.

He winks at me and turns his attention back to his homework. I try to swallow but my mouth as gone oddly dry. I force myself to stare at the math problem but my brain simply refuses to cooperate and concentrate, and when Peeta closes his book shut ten minutes later and begins to pack up to head for practice I still haven't found the stupid square root.

* * *

I don't see much more of Peeta that week. Not until Sunday morning when Gale and I stop by the bakery on our way to the Hob, intending on trading the squirrel we shot for some good bread. As usual it's Mr. Mellark who answers our knock on the door and he assures us that we can have some raisin nut bread in exchange for the rodent. Gale busies himself with whistling a tune and twirling a broken snare around his finger while we wait. I lean against the brick wall and close my eyes, savouring each intake of air which gives me the delectable scent of freshly baked bread and sweets. It always seems like the baker comes back way too fast, though I wonder if his sons feel the opposite. Mr. Mellark almost always leaves the door open while he goes out into the store and gets the bread, letting the cold winter air in but allowing us the lovely smells of the bakery kitchen. I asked Peeta about it a few weeks ago and he assured me that they actually appreciate getting some cold air to relieve some of the heat from the ovens but I think he's just being polite in telling me so. I also think his father is being nice to us by leaving the door open but I choose to officially accept Peeta's assurance that it's just as much for their benefit. It's one of the few things I can allow as a gift of sorts, since it doesn't put me in debt to the Mellarks.

"Katniss! Hey!"

My eyes open at the familiar sound of Peeta's voice. Spontaneously I smile, though I quickly adopt a neutral expression instead so that Gale won't feel uncomfortable. Peeta's smiling widely but he doesn't stop to have a talk with me. Despite the fact that he's outside in fifteen degrees below temperatures he's wearing nothing but a sweat stained t-shirt on his upper body and his face seems flushed with beads of sweat cover his brow. He's carrying a large bag of flour draped across his shoulders, which is why he doesn't stop to talk to me. He's strong, but he's got to be eager to put that thing down.

"Hey yourself," I answer him as he turns sideways to better fit himself and the large bag through the door.

"It's good to see you," he smiles. "Looking forward to tomorrow!"

I grin widely despite Gale's presence, though I have no time to answer Peeta before he's disappeared inside the kitchen. We're hoping to get feedback tomorrow from our teachers about fictional baby Hunter's birth registration form and we're both excited to find out what they think of our work. Once Peeta is back inside my eyes turn to Gale, who is still whistling and has his eyes on the snare he's playing with. From inside the kitchen I can hear Peeta setting down the bag of flour with a huff and talking in low voices with one of his brothers. Then his father shows up at the door, handing me a brown paper bag containing something that smells absolutely divine. The bag is practically steaming warm and again I have a hard time concealing my grin. This bread did not come from inside the store. This must have come from the oven just a short while ago.

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Mellark." I say, recognizing that this technically puts the bread at higher value. Storefront bread is not always freshly baked, in fact they sell older loaves at lower price. Six months ago I would have refused to accept a loaf this fresh without handing the baker another squirrel or something but I'm willing to cede my principles a tiny bit this time. If you want to get technical about it this bread might only be an hour newer than the loaves out in the store and by the time we get home it won't be fresh from the oven anymore. What it mostly gives me is the pleasure of it's wonderful scent while I carry it home.

"Thank _you_ , Katniss," replies Mr. Mellark. "Gale," he says with a nod.

"Thank you," says Gale and puts the snare away. As we begin to walk away he takes my free hand in his and I wonder if he's going to make a comment about the way I thanked the baker just now. But he doesn't.

We head over to the Hob and spend about half an hour there, trading the excess of today's spoils from the woods and sharing a bowl of Greasy Sae's stew. Afterward we stop by at my house to leave my half of the bounty with Mother. Prim is not at home, she's out with her friends. We only stay for a few minutes, to leave my share and cut the loaf of bread in half. It's cooled but still smells heavenly. My mouth waters just from the sight and smell of it and I almost wish I could have a slice now while it's still somewhat oven-fresh. But I don't want to enjoy it without Prim here to share it with me, and Gale is eager for us to go. We bid my mother farewell and head back outside in the cold, making our way to the Hawthorne house.

"Come on," Gale grins, opening the door and leading the way inside. He's been in a great mood all day but he's been bordering on giddy ever since we left the Hob and began heading back to the Seam. Not even the run-in with Peeta at the bakery seems to have done much to dampen his spirits, which makes me happy. I may have a difficult time combining the two of them in my mind, something I attribute to one of them being my partner for real and the other being it in make believe, but I don't see why Gale should be affected by it. The fact that he has been has been a source of frustration with me. I don't like jealousy. Not in matters like these. I find it petty. If you're sure about someone there's no need for jealousy and if you're not sure then jealousy won't solve the problem. And it feels like an insult that he would feel there was some conduct on my part that would give him reason to be jealous in the first place.

At the moment though jealousy seems to be the last thing on Gale's mind. I notice when I step inside and close the door behind me that the house is oddly quiet. I've rarely been here without at least two other members of the Hawthorne family being present. It's always been such a lively household compared to my own. Speaking of jealousy, I can't deny that I've often wished my home could have the same atmosphere as Gale's. Now that said atmosphere seems to be gone it's a little disconcerting to me. Well, it's not _bad_ per se, so disconcerting might be the wrong word. It's not what I'm used to in this house, is all, and it might take me a moment to get used to it.

Gale notices the look on my face and chuckles softly.

"The boys are playing football at the school field," he explains. "And Posy is at a play date with a friend from school. My mother went with her. Apparently she and that girl's mother are becoming friends as well." I nod and shrug a shoulder as I head for the sitting room and the couch. I look around, wondering if I've ever seen the place without people in it. "Which means…" Gale continues, his voice dropping an octave. His hand finds my elbow and catches my attention. "We are all alone."

"Yeah," I nod. "It's a little strange. This place has never been so quiet."

"It doesn't have to be," he says in a strangely suggestive tone. I don't know what that's supposed to mean or what I should read into it so I don't answer.

He goes into the kitchen to put away the bread, the game and the things we acquired through trade at the Hob. I take a seat on the worn old couch, my eyes travelling across the room, still trying to get accustomed to the entire Hawthorne family being out. No, not the entire family. Gale appears in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost with a smile. He stands there for a minute, looking at me in a way that makes me smile a little. I've never thought myself beautiful but when he looks at me like that I can almost believe that I am. He walks over to me and holds out his hand. I take it and he helps pull me to my feet. He then leads me to a different room of the house, one I've never been in for more than a minute or two. His bedroom. Even though we're alone he closes the door behind us and my eyes fall on the bed that takes up most of the room. There's nowhere else for us to sit than on top of the bed.

"Oh," I say, realizing why he brought me here.

His hands land on my upper arms and gently he ushers me to the bed where I sit. I don't know what else to do, honestly. I'm incredibly nervous all of a sudden and when Gale sits down so close to me that he almost squishes my leg a little my heart begins to pound in my chest, loud enough that I can hear the blood whirling in my ears. His hands cup my face and he looks deep into my eyes. I'm so nervous that my mouth has gone completely dry but he doesn't seem to think less of me for it.

"Alone at last…" he mumbles, his voice deep. His eyes go to my lips for a brief second before meeting my gaze again. "You don't know how long I've wanted to have you to myself in here."

I try and swallow but I have no saliva. I settle for a dry hark instead.

"How… How long will your family be gone, you said?"

"At least another half hour…" He leans in and kisses me in a way that's both tender and hungry. I open my mouth and his tongue immediately finds its way in, exploring me in a somewhat slow but very determined manner. I let him take the lead, as I almost always do. He seems to be much more fond of having his tongue exploring my mouth than I am of letting mine explore his, anyway.

"So…" I manage when we part for air. I feel myself trembling with nervousness so in order to distract myself – and Gale, so he won't notice – I find something that brings our focus away from kisses for a minute or two. I stroke his cheek with the palm of my hand, humming slightly. "Your cheek is smooth."

"Uh-huh," he answers, sounding a touch confused. "That's what you get when you shave every morning."

"A lot of boys at school aren't shaving right now."

"I… I'm not sure I follow."

"The athletes. The tournament is coming up. You remember, don't you?"

"Yeah," he says. There's a crease on his forehead, implying that his mind is working on something he doesn't like too much to think about. "Are we talking boys in general here, or anybody in particular?"

Oh geez, I don't want to get into _that_ right now. And I doubt Gale wants to either. I pretend not to have taken notice of the question and smile, moving my hand to his brow to stroke it, futilely hoping to make that crease go away.

"I like the clean shaven thing better," I say with a smile that I hope is as cute as I intended it to be.

It works. Gale grins widely and captures my lips in a heated kiss. One of his hands reaches behind me, cradling me a bit as he shifts us to lie down. I end up with my feet still on the floor and my head hitting the mattress without a pillow to support it. Gale's elbow accidentally pins my braid and yanks it a little as he shifts to move on top of me. I immediately scowl.

"Very uncomfortable here," I tell him.

"Oh. Sorry." He looks up at the head of the bed. "Let's scoot up. You'll lie more comfortably that way."

With a huff I do as he suggests, using my elbows to help push me further up on the bed. Biting my bottom lip nervously I grab the pillow and adjust it to be as comfortable as possible behind my head. Once I deem it good enough I let out a small sigh and look at Gale who is grinning widely. He moves in again, laying on his side right next to me, caressing my cheek with one hand while leaning down for another kiss. After a few minutes of that he shifts, moving his body on top of mine, his legs between my own. I tense up and he allows me a moment to adjust to the new development before resuming the kisses. At first he holds his weight up on his arms but after a while I feel his pelvis come down to rest against mine. I feel something there, something hard that I can only assume is one thing. My initial reaction is to want to tense up and push him off of me but I force myself to breathe calmly and relax. This is Gale. He knows me, loves me, would never do anything to hurt me. It can't be that he's expecting this to lead to… well, to things couples sometimes do when they're alone in a bed. There are several steps in-between kissing while Gale's hands wander on top of my clothes and the kind of things that happen when all the clothes are off. He wouldn't expect to jump straight to the endgame with me. He knows I've never done anything like that before and I'll need time.

Except time is not what I need. It isn't about becoming ready for it. If we keep kissing and touching there will come a day when I feel physically ready to progress to the next step, and then the next, and then the next. But whatever my body may feel ready to do and desire to do, my heart and mind won't ever allow. Gale and I are never going to be… _intimate_. Intimacy of that sort leads to children. He knows I'll never agree to take it to that level – doesn't he? Is it really wise to go down this road when we'll never see it through to its end?

It doesn't take long for Gale to notice my not entirely comfortable state of mind. His lips leave my mouth and places kisses along my cheek over to my ear.

"Please Katniss, don't be nervous," he whispers, so close that his breath tickles my ear. "I just want to kiss you…" A kiss on my earlobe emphasises this. "And touch you." His cheek nuzzles mine. "And be near you. That's all I want. Just to be close to you. We're so close in every other way. Just… Just feeling your skin on mine, your lips on mine, your warmth and your softness and your scent…" He groans a little and lifts himself up on his forearms just enough for us to look at each other. "I would never ask anything of you that you're not willing to give yet. Alright?"

"Gale…" I say, managing to swallow while nervously looking up at him. I want to tell him – remind him – that sex won't ever be part of the repertoire between us. I don't want there to be any misunderstandings or false hope where this matter is concerned. But looking at him now and taking in the words he's saying I find I can't bring myself to talk about this right now. He's not pressuring me. All he wants is to be near me. How can I deny him that? In a way it's not much different from us huddling together out on our log in our glade. And I do find the kissing nice and the warmth of his touches invigorating.

So because I don't know what else to do I pull his face back down towards mine, meeting his lips for another kiss.

"Oh Katniss…" he mumbles against my lips when the kiss ends. "You are so incredible." His pelvis grinds against mine and it gives a pleasurable sensation that makes me gasp a little. Gale notices and grins, kissing me heatedly and grinding against me again, and once more after that. I decide to just try and relax and allow myself to enjoy the sensations and Gale's closeness. There are so few things in my life that feel good and make me happy so perhaps I don't have to worry so much about what will happen further down the line and instead just enjoy this moment while it lasts.

"I wish you could stay with me all day and all night," mumbles Gale against my ear.

"That would be nice," I whimper back, wrapping my leg around his waist to try and get more comfortable. I don't know what specifically causes him to moan, my words or moving my leg that way, but I'm pleased that I can bring about that reaction in him.

"Someday, maybe…" he says in a hopeful tone.

"Maybe…" I agree. I can see myself spending the night sleeping beside him here. In fact, it might be kind of nice. Just as long as we're talking scattered nights during which we keep our pyjamas on.

This goes on for a bit, the kissing and Gale's occasional groaning. His hands stay up around my face until they don't anymore, one of them travelling down my neck and then continuing down my side. It tickles and I laugh, looking up at him and expecting to see him laughing as well. But he's completely serious right now, his eyes hooded and his cheeks flushed. In fact he hardly seems aware that he tickled me, almost instantly he's kissing me again, barely giving me a moment to catch my breath. But I'm more distracted now, acutely aware of where his hand is.

Then said hand grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it up. I grunt in protest but Gale seems to interpret it as surprise, and deepens the kiss. I wait for a second, wondering if he's going to remove his hand, but he doesn't. His hand travels up my bare skin and his fingers touch the underside of my bra.

"Stop it!" I growl, shoving him off of me with both hands. He looks confused for a second, watching me as I sit up and pull my shirt back down, tucking it in my pants. "Gale what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"We're fooling around," he says, but judging by his voice he knows he's taken it too far. I know Gale Hawthorne pretty well after all these years and although his voice has a ring of apology to it I can also detect something else. Frustration, or perhaps even irritation. Maybe he feels I should have let him continue. Maybe that's what good girlfriends do after this many weeks together.

Too bad for him I'm not like other girlfriends.

"I can't believe you just did that," I scowl, straightening the rest of my clothes while I'm at it, mostly so that my hands can have something to do and so that I have a reason not to look at him. I understand that it's not out of line for a boyfriend to want to do that but Gale knows the terms of our relationship and I despise having to feel like a bad girlfriend just because I won't play by the generally accepted rules. We can either do this on the terms I'm comfortable with, or not at all. But when I look at him he looks the opposite of the happy guy I've spent the day with so far, and I feel bad all of a sudden. "Your family could be home any minute," I add, hoping to defuse the moment a bit.

"We would hear the door," he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm not sure you would have heard the mine alarm going off thirty seconds ago," I lamely joke, but at least it gets a chuckle out of him. "Look, Gale, kissing is fine but…"

"I wasn't trying to get you naked, even though you're acting as if I were" he answers, shifting so that his back is against the wall and his legs are bent in front of him. His fingers begin to drum on his knees. "What's so wrong about me wanting to touch you?"

Averting my eyes I try to find a good answer. I suppose a good enough answer is that I don't want him to, but it sounds horrible in my ears so it must sound ten times worse to him if I say it.

"You just caught me of guard, that's all."

He looks at me like he's trying to figure out something, then he actually laughs a little. I scowl again, wondering what's so funny all of a sudden. Me being tickled wasn't funny to him, but my answer just now is?

"Katniss did you seriously think I was trying to steer this towards sex? Right here, right now?"

"No," I say defensively, moving to sit at the edge of the bed, feeling a little more at ease when my feet touch the floor. "Why do you think that because I don't intend on having sex that means I somehow feel perfectly alright with you groping me all over the place in the middle of the day and with your family possibly walking in at any minute?"

"Okay, okay, no need to get so defensive…" he chuckles.

"Don't laugh at me Gale."

"I'm not. I'm not." And yet he looks at me like he thinks I'm hilarious and my scowl deepens. Once more he laughs, though at least this time it sounds a bit forced. "Oh come on, Catnip, am I not entitled too to be a bit nervous in these moments?"

"You don't seem particularly nervous," I comment dryly, removing the rubber band that holds my braid together and using my fingers as a makeshift comb. My braid has gotten all messed up during our kissing session and I want it looking decent again.

"You make me nervous," he claims. "You make me feel… all sorts of things."

"Wow, you're so romantic," I say in an even dryer tone, aware of the irony of me accusing him of not being romantic.

"Well I promise you that I wasn't trying to get you naked. Alright?" He holds his hands up in an attempt at being disarming but I don't find him particularly cute at present. "I wasn't even trying to take off your bra. I just wanted to…"

"Yeah whatever," I cut him off. I begin to braid my hair anew, putting the rubber band between my teeth while my fingers work on my hair. It has the disadvantage of making it hard for me to speak.

"Believe me Catnip, I have a whole other arrangement in mind for when we take the sex step. I also don't have any intention of going straight from kissing to fornicating." He says the last word in a funny voice while wiggling his eyebrows, a failed attempt at levity. "Look, we'll take it one step at a time, okay? Right now we have a rare opportunity of being alone together in one of our houses, which means we're warm and safe and we have a bed at our disposal, and I was having such a great time and I wanted to take things to the next level. I truly thought you would be okay with it. But I was only hoping to touch you on top of your bra, I promise, unless you were fine with me moving the cups down. Baby steps is what we agreed on, right?"

"Gale-" I try, rubber band still in-between my teeth. It irritates me that he seems to have forgotten – or maybe even ignored – that we aren't going to be having sex. But when he interrupts me I don't try and interrupt him back, because I'm suddenly not entirely sure that we have understood each other. Have I actually said to him in plain English that I never want to have sex? Or just that I don't want to have children? According to Peeta there are all sorts of ways to prevent the latter without abstaining from the former.

While these thoughts have been going through my mind Gale has kept talking and I haven't been listening. He doesn't seem to have noticed, luckily. I tie the end of my new braid with the band and turn to look at him and he's staring at his hands while he talks – about sex, still, it turns out.

"I want it to feel right for you when it's your first time," he goes on. "I want for you to be comfortable and to feel eager, even though you'll likely be nervous."

"My first time…" I repeat his words, wondering if I've missed anything I should have been paying attention to. "Not ours? Yours? Gale it wouldn't be your first time, would it?"

"No," he admits after a drawn-out pause. He gives me a look that's anxious, almost pleading. "Katniss does that bother you?"

Now it's my turn to take a pause, but then I tell him no. It feels like a lie when I say it. Picturing him having sex with another girl makes my stomach turn and I feel a bit robbed. But it wouldn't be right to tell him so. Gale is mine, but he wasn't whenever that act took place. He is entitled to a past.

"I'm not going to lie to you and tell you it was something that just _happened_ , or try and sell you some song and dance about me wanting to get some experience before my first time with _you_ , so that I could make it better for you." He makes a face and straightens his legs with a heavy huff. "Honestly… I wanted to experience sex."

I sit quietly at the edge of the bed, wringing my hands absent-mindedly and trying to suppress the discomfort in my heart. Then something else comes to my mind and adds a whole other level of hurt, one that feels like an outright betrayal no matter how much I realize that it's not a rational reaction.

"How come you never told me about this?" I ask, looking at my boyfriend whose face looks troubled and flushed. "Who was she? Actually never mind, I don't care _who_ it was. I care that you never told me. How long ago was this?"

"It… didn't seem like the thing we would talk about," answers Gale. "It was during my last year of school, but before you ask, no, it was not Elsie Blum. I was… nervous, I mean a million times more than usual, about the upcoming Reaping and I couldn't help but think that I wanted to experience sex before I die, and then when the opportunity presented itself…" He laughs shortly, mirthlessly. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth for a second. Then he shrugs and looks at me with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "As for why I never mentioned it… I didn't know how to work that into conversation. _So how's your week been? Mine was swell, I got to have sex._ "

"Yeah, I get it," I say dryly.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks, the expression on his face now full of concern and reassurance. "I know the decent thing to do was to _not_ have sex with someone I'm not in love with, _especially_ since it was my first time. I've often thought that I should have waited. For you. Only… You know, the threat of death was looming over me much heavier than the five years that came before it and it felt like something I really wanted to do."

"Gale…" I say, summoning the willpower to reach back and put my hand on his leg in a reassuring manner. I feel so strange about this because deep down I already knew he wasn't a virgin – or at least I had a strong suspicion. Yet hearing him say it is another thing entirely. And that he didn't tell me, his best friend, when something that monumental happened to him… But I don't want to fight over it and I don't want him to feel this bad. He looks, and sounds, like he cheated on me and he has done nothing of the sort.

"Katniss, I..."

"Hush, now," I say. "There is no need to apologise. I have no right to be mad. This happened before we were going out and you had every right to do what you did. I'm just a little… caught off guard about it, that's all."

Again he laughs without a trace of joy.

"Catnip, I think you are great for looking at it like that and I love you for it. But to be completely open and honest with you… Well, there is reason to judge and criticise me for that experience."

"Why?" I ask, unable to imagine anything bad he could have done. "What happened?"

"Well, I… wasn't particularly honourable with the girl I was with." He sighs and although there's a smile on his face it remains without elation and there's a wistful look in his grey eyes. "You see, for the most part I was… thinking about you." He looks deep into my eyes and his voice lowers an octave. "Imagining that I was with you."

"Oh," I say. " _Oh_."

"Yeah," Gale says sheepishly, giving me a look that implies that he feels bad but that he also wonders if I'm finding this flattering.

"Oh boy," I say, my hands finding the edge of the bed as I lean forward. "I'm not sure how much I can _judge_ you but…" I turn and meet his eyes. "Did she know?"

"What, are you crazy?" He looks genuinely baffled by the question. "You don't tell a person something like that! That would only add insult to… injury."

"This is all starting to make my head spin," I declare, getting up on my feet with one hand to my temple. "Listen Gale, I don't think you're a terrible guy for what you just told me but… it's been an eventful day."

"Catnip…" With a worried look on his face Gale scrambles to get down off the bed, putting his hands on my upper arms but with a very loose grip.

I don't want to talk more right now. I'm not mad, to be honest I don't know what I am, but I feel overwhelmed by everything that's transpired since we set foot in the Hawthorne home. To reassure him, and stop him from launching into a long monologue or a discussion, I give him a kiss on the lips and a smile. He's obviously distraught since he responds with a relieved smile, not picking up on the fact that mine doesn't go so far as to my eyes.

"We're alright," I tell him. "But I've been here for quite a while now and I ought to get back home."

* * *

When I step back outside the weather has changed, winds picking up and icy snowflakes falling down from the sky, hurting the exposed skin of my face and hands as the wind hurls them at me. I almost don't notice it, my mind is so preoccupied. For what feels like the millionth time since I started my final school year I lament all the changes that this phase in life brings and I stand there by the Hawthornes' mailbox for a minute and wonder what to do. In becoming Gale's girlfriend I've lost him as a friend, as our relationship presents a whole catalogue of new challenges and experiences but I can't turn to him for help processing everything. Then again I can't imagine that I would have ever wanted to turn to Gale as a friend to discuss matters of sex and other forms of physical intimacy. But I have a strong need to talk to someone and I don't know who I can turn to. Asking my mother for help sorting this all out is unthinkable. Prim is off the table as well. I can talk to her about a lot of things but I don't like worrying her with my problems, and I really don't want her to know my intimate thoughts about intimate issues.

As I've been standing here thinking my head has been turned in the direction that leads home, protecting my face from the winds which are blowing from the direction of town. Now I take a deep breath and turn my face the other way instead. It's still early in the day, not even one o'clock in the afternoon. It's not an inappropriate time to pay a visit, even though I suspect my presence would be considered inappropriate in and of itself by some. But to hell with that, I don't care what anyone says. There is someone I could talk to, someone who might be able to help me or who will at least lend a friendly ear, which might be all that I need. The food waiting at home, including the half-loaf of bread, will have to wait. Squinting to protect my eyes from the icy snow I stick my hands in my pockets and begin to walk away from home, down the road that leads into town.

Speaking to Madge Undersee might be just what I need right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I opted out of doing proper research on the dandelion-roots-as-dye part so I have no earthly clue how many dandelions it would take to produce enough red yarn to make a sweater. Chalk it up to artistic license. I wanted the discussion about their favourite colours and I wanted the dandelion connection.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, first update of the new year! Hope you all had a great holiday season and that the year's been treating you good so far. Before we get on with the chapter I want to take a moment to say a great big THANK YOU to everyone who takes the time to read and/or comment. It truly means a lot to me, even though I only reply sporadically these days. I know this story is a very slow burn and that Galeniss has been going on for quite some time but I promise you that if you stay with it you will be rewarded.
> 
> About the chapter - I borrowed a little from "Catching Fire" this time around. There's no point re-inventing the wheel when Ms. Collins did it so wonderfully.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy!

"That's it for today," Mr. Stoker announces, setting the thick book he's been reading from down on his desk, sending a whiff of dust up in the air. The school day is almost finished, just one more class to go. Project hour. I smile slyly but the smile quickly vanishes when our teacher tacks on something after dismissing the class. "Mellark and Everdeen, stay behind. I want to speak with you."

Up until this moment I had been sure our teachers would find our acquiring the form brilliant but that certainty seems to be vanishing all of a sudden. There could be no other reason for Mr. Stoker to detain us after class except to chastise us for something and then perhaps doling out some detention time or extra assignments as punishment. My eyes go to Peeta who busies himself with the slow process of getting all his things together. He doesn't turn to look at me and seems wholly unaware that I'm glaring at him so instead I turn to look at Madge. She looks confused. I haven't told her about the form even though I trust her not to try and copy us to help boost her own grade. Peeta and I agreed it would be a secret between us, and so it has stayed.

"What did you do?" whispers Madge, her eyes wide and confused.

"I don't know," I whisper back, wondering if this is not even about the form. Maybe it's about something else. But what could Peeta and I have done to earn us the disgruntlement of our teacher?

"Good luck," she whispers, collecting her books in a swift and fluid fashion that Peeta could learn a great deal from, pressing them against her chest as she rises from her chair. "And fill me in later, okay?"

I nod, swallowing nervously as I gather my own things and watch Madge manoeuvre her way out of the classroom. We've made plans to meet up after school and continue our talk from yesterday. I came knocking on her door shortly before supper and while she assured me that I would be welcome at the table I didn't feel comfortable accepting so I only stayed for about half an hour. Long enough to tell her the gist of the problem – Gale and intimacy – but not nearly long enough to discuss it any length so she invited me over after school today. I'm looking forward to it but the truth is it also fills me with nervousness. Going to her house to talk as a spontaneous decision felt right and reasonable. Making plans ahead of time gives me hours to overthink and second guess.

Our classmates clear out in a matter of minutes and before long it's just myself, Peeta and the teacher. I've never been held back after class before and I feel a bit humiliated by the experience, as much as I nonetheless stand by our actions and even feel proud of them. Peeta and I slowly approach the teacher's desk, standing side by side while Mr. Stoker remains seated, his eyes on the homework that was handed in at the start of class. My eyes meet Peeta's and he looks calm and reassuring but I don't share his feelings. This can't mean good news. He's standing close enough that I could take his hand if I wanted to, and truthfully I do want to. I settle for letting the back of mine press against the back of his and I feel him pressing back, some of his fingers reaching back to tangle a bit with my own. I relax a little, reassured that at least we're together in this. As Gale and I are a unit, a team, when we are in the woods Peeta and I have become one in this project – in a way mirroring the team real spouses ought to be. As we stand there and wait for Mr. Stoker to speak my mind races with the possible infractions we might have committed. Are you not allowed to procure forms from the Justice Building for school work? If so, why would that man have given it to us? Did he get angry when I never showed up at his doorstep with game and decided to tell our teachers some lies about how we got a hold of the form? Or is this about something else entirely?

After what feels like an eternity Mr. Stoker finally looks up from the papers in his hands and studies us, his expression almost impossible to read.

"Where did you get it?" he asks.

"We… asked," Peeta answers simply after a second or two, his voice completely cool and confident in a way that I envy him. It's possible he's faking, but if so he's good at it. Mr. Stoker raises an eyebrow at him, giving me a brief glance before focusing on Peeta.

"Asked, huh? Asked whom?"

"The clerk at the Justice Building."

"I see." Mr. Stoker clasps his hands on the desk and leans forward. I still can't tell if he's about to punish us or if he's just curious. "And who gave you the bright idea to stroll into the Justice Building and ask to get your hands on a birth registration form?"

Peeta opens his mouth, and I know he's about to take the heat for this but there's no way I'm going to let him do that.

"I suggested it, Mr. Stoker," I say, my voice calm and firm. I allow myself a swift glance at Peeta, who is looking at me like he's trying to implore me to let him take the fall for it which is, quite simply, stupid. I don't leave people that I care about out to dry and I most certainly do not let them take the blame for the things I do. And I don't need Peeta, or anyone else, to fall on any proverbial swords on my account. For a moment a memory flashes before my eyes; Peeta with a bruised face tossing that bread to me. I swallow, guilt washing over me for having just felt ungrateful towards him. Had it been anyone else… but not him. I turn my eyes back to Mr. Stoker, finding it too painful to look at Peeta right now. One of his fingers curls around mine and squeezes it.

Then Mr. Stoker bursts out laughing. Stunned I can't help but turn to Peeta, seeing the same surprise and confusion I feel mirrored in his eyes. Our teacher shakes his head, still laughing, and rises from his chair.

"Well I must say… You are an industrious pair, aren't you? It's been a long while since I last had students who got so _creative_ on this project." He turns and begins to wipe the whiteboard clean. In the corner of my eye I can see Peeta smiling softly, confidently. "What gave you the idea, Everdeen? Figures it was you. Mellark can't even seem to find the wits to shave, much less acquire official forms."

"It was his wits that got us the form in the first place," I reply.

"Yes, but yours that landed you at the Justice Building to begin with. Now let's hear it. What gave you the idea?"

"It was just logical," I shrug. "We didn't know what information they want on those forms so we went to the place where we could find out."

Mr. Stoker, who is now finished cleaning the board, turns back to us and smirks, something I have never seen him do ever before. It's almost a little creepy coming from him. He walks back to the desk and picks up a new envelope.

"Keep up the good work," he says, holding it out to us. I take it, pulling my hand away from Peeta's in the process. "I have to admit I'm curious to see what you two might come up with next. You make a good team. You complement each other well. Bring out interesting sides in one another, it seems." He tilts his head, studying us in a way that makes me feel oddly scrutinized. "Perhaps we should go with that for next year," he muses to himself. "Town-and-Seam pairings to as far an extent as possible."

"Yeah," I snort, pulling one arm out from the straps of my backpack and moving the pack to my front so I can put the envelope inside. "That's our secret. That one of us is merchant and the other Seam. That would be the full extent of our personalities."

Mr. Stoker looks taken aback and Peeta makes an almost goofy dumbfounded look, his blue eyes incredibly wide while his mouth attempts to stay neutral. I suppose it's no wonder they're both flabbergasted. I've never gotten that close to talking back to a teacher in my whole life. But what he said was so unnervingly stupid that I couldn't help it, and it takes all credit away from Peeta and me as persons, putting all of it on our different backgrounds. As if Mr. Stoker doesn't think us capable of creativity on our own.

"Well, recess is over in about a minute and a half," says Peeta after a hark, trying to sound normal and casual. "We should get going. Wouldn't want to be late in opening our next assignment envelope." He takes my hand and begins to lead me out of the classroom. "Come along my pretend sweet-pea. Thank you Mr. Stoker. My mother will be so pleased at… your being pleased. See you next class."

He moves his hand from holding mine to being splayed on my back, ushering me out into the hallway ahead of him. The door closes behind us and he continues to steer me down the corridor until we've rounded a corner. Then we both stop at the exact same time and I turn around and face him. Mirroring grins then break out on our faces and we share a brief, triumphant laugh at our success. I might be irritated with our teacher but I don't want to focus on that; right now I want to enjoy the fruits of our labour and celebrate our small moment of success.

"They loved it!" I exclaim, keeping my voice low since we're out in the hallway but not holding back on my excitement at our triumph. "That was amazing!"

"Mr. Stoker is right on the money," grins Peeta, his pretty blue eyes practically sparkling. "We do make a fantastic team!"

"Yes we do!"

Then Peeta leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek; his beard, which has now grown to almost a centimetre in length, feels oddly smooth against my skin whilst also tickling it lightly. It must be that sensation that causes me to lightly gasp and a tingling sensation to spread down my spine and out through my body. For a short, senseless moment I feel the mad urge to move my face just enough so that his lips are lined up with my own, wanting to know what his facial hair would feel like against my skin if we kissed properly. The desire to find out is so instantaneous, so startling and so strong that I pull him into a proper hug instead, finding comfort in the safety of burying my face against the nape of his neck where my lips can't do anything stupid like kiss him full on the mouth. My heart is pounding in my chest and I feel almost dizzy from everything that's happened in the past ten minutes. From being asked to stay after class to annoyance with the teacher to excitement over our accomplishment to the crazy misfire in my brain just seconds ago.

"Come on," says Peeta after only a second or two, pulling back from our hug with a smile that oddly enough seems a touch strained. "Recess is over and we'll have to be at the top of our game to keep outshining the rest of our class."

"Lead the way," I say, surprised at how hoarse my voice sounds.

He nods and as we begin to walk side by side towards the assembly room he gives me a playful nudge with his shoulder.

"I can't believe you snarked at our teacher…"

* * *

Our usual table is occupied so I find us another one by the windows. It's a little odd to relocate, the other table having become almost like a part of the project, kind of like our home if you will, but Peeta doesn't seem bothered. It's a beautiful day outside for once and the sun is shining through the windows from a clear blue sky and it's hard to deny that it's quite lovely to sit at the new table and be able to enjoy it.

I open the envelope and roll my eyes when they _yet again_ have us drawing up a budget based on our new circumstances. As if the last one we made couldn't be applicable for a few more weeks or years or whenever they decide to expand our fictional family. Sometimes this project feels like it's 90% home economics and if the point is to teach us how to make and adjust a budget I'd say they've beaten the point to the ground. In addition to the budget we have a fairly large assignment in which we are asked to write about the different developmental stages in a child's first eighteen months. Luckily we still have the books we lifted from the back room of the library and my mother's knowledge t help us but this is going to take a lot of work outside of that. We agree almost instantly that next week we'll sit in the library and get as much work done as possible, in addition to asking our parents what they can tell us about an infant's development. The third part of this leg of the project is something I actually find rather interesting. It's about the actual relationship between two people in a marriage, a topic I've been wishing they could add even though I realize it is difficult to tackle in a school project where the number of actual romantic couples working together is slim. I mean, how can you write about your romantic relationship to a person you're not romantically involved with – a person you might only be talking to for one hour a week? Even so, for me this is what it's all about. How spouses deal with the various things that befall and stress them determines how happy they will be together. Love alone cannot sustain a marriage through thick and thin.

Our teachers have drawn up a scenario where Peeta has to work long, hard hours to support our family while I'm at home trying to adjust to motherhood and taking care of a baby with colic. Of course the damn baby has to have colic. Peeta finds it cute that the kid is actually referred to as Hunter in the text, something I didn't even realize until he pointed it out. We are each tasked with writing an essay about how we think we'd react in, and handle, the presented scenario, what we expect from our partner and what we think we can do to make things easier for our spouse. There are a few other questions thrown in there as well to flesh it out. The essays are due next Monday and a week after that we will get to respond to what our partner wrote and see what problems would arise between us if it were all for real. Then a few couples will be selected to have an actual discussion with a teacher present. Due to the nature of the assignment we're not allowed to work together on our essays, or even talk about what we're writing. It's quite advanced for a school project, we both feel, but it's also the most interest part so far and therefore I won't complain. I just hope we're not selected to do the discussion part.

As we work on the project, choosing to start with the budget, we each fall into our own section and work mostly in silence. As part of the budget this time around we're supposed to be writing up a savings plan for how we might be able to stash a few extra coins under our mattress to save for a rainy day, a pointless exercise since we've already been doing it as much as possible throughout the project but I have long since stopped rolling my eyes at the parts of the assignment that I find idiotic. We spent the first fifteen minutes talking at length about different savings ideas and now we're writing it up in two different parts, one for each of us to pen.

While we are working my attention begins to drift from the words I'm jotting down on paper to the person sitting at the table with me. It starts when the sunlight blinds me a little and I find I have to shift my chair a bit to avoid it. This puts me directly opposite Peeta and I come to notice how the light from the sun affects his appearance. He's wearing a blue sweater with a hood, an item of clothing from his wrestling team I believe, and it occurs to me how it seems to be the exact same shade of blue as his eyes. The sun shines on his ashen hair making it almost luminescent and whenever he looks up at me to make a comment or ask for my input I can't help but notice how impossibly blue his eyes look in the sunlight and highlighted by his blond hair and blue sweater. I become almost transfixed by the colour, almost unable to believe that a person can have eyes that blue. My mother and sister both have blue eyes but not like Peeta's in the sun. His eyes are framed by blond eyelashes that seem to be longer than I would think a boy's would be. There's something very delicate about those lashes, thin blond straws of hair framing his beautiful blue eyes, so long it's a wonder they don't tangle in each other every time he blinks. The eyebrows are only a touch darker and very nicely shaped. I know a lot of girls in our class who sigh about their eyebrows being so bushy and unfeminine. Peeta's seemed almost sculptured.

I force my eyes back to my work for a few minutes, wondering to myself how to best phrase what I'm trying to write. Peeta is far more talented than I am when it comes to anything related to language and I've been asking for his input a lot but I want to be able to get it done on my own. The fact is I feel like I'm starting to pick up a thing or two and starting to detect things that Peeta would point out in what I've written and fixing them. Things like not using the same word several times in a sentence; right now I'm trying to come up with synonyms for the word "money" instead of just writing that three times over.

Again my eyes drift up at him. This time I can't see his eyes very well as he is leaning his head over the work and his eyes are looking downward. Instead I take notice of the shape of his nose, something I've never really given a thought to – about anyone. His doesn't have a perfect slope but instead a light rise, almost like a faint bump, close to its bridge. I don't know why I'm finding it interesting all of a sudden. Thinking about it I actually find noses pretty odd – this big chunk of flesh and cartilage protruding from our otherwise rather flat faces. It should make us look ridiculous but Peeta's seems to fit him rather well.

Bewildered by these weird thoughts just stumbling into my mind I give my head a light shake to clear it and fold my arms on the table in front of me, deciding to truly give all my focus to what I'm writing. I can't be sitting here ogling someone else's _nose_ for crying out loud. Especially when I've never given any thought to what Gale's looks like. I can't even conjure it from memory, can't recall if it's straight or bulky or narrow or anything else. I guess it's just normal. I _really_ need to stop thinking about this.

For a moment I set aside all pretence of being fully focused on my school work and let the pen drop down onto the notepad, leaving a graphite mark where it falls. I know I may be as inexperienced in the field of sex and romance as I am experienced in the field of hunting and gathering but even I can understand that there a level of attraction when I'm with Peeta. From my part vis-à-vis him at least, and I'm fairly certain he feels some measure of attraction towards me as well. Though I have so little experience to guide me it strikes me as improbable that these sparks I sometimes feel could happen unless there's something occurring with both parties. Chemistry needs two participants. But attraction doesn't have to mean much of anything. Lots of girls in my class swoon over Finnick Odair whenever he appears during the Hunger Games or Victory Tour but I highly doubt that they have any deeper feelings for him or would run away with him if he asked them to. I find Peeta to be pleasant to look at and fun to be around and what's so odd about that? I find Madge to be beautiful and I enjoy her company but I wouldn't want to be her girlfriend. Why should it be so different just because Peeta is a boy and I'm a girl? Can't we merely find each other to be pleasant looking and not want to actually _do_ anything because of it?

Peeta is fully engrossed in his work, his eyes travelling between the notes he took while we were talking, the last budget we handed in, and the instructions given by the teachers. His mouth moves every now and then as if he is mouthing along, something I believe he does when counting in his head. He hasn't noticed that my pencil has taken a break nor does he notice when I pick it up again. It's just as well. As far as he's concerned there's nothing more to our relationship than what was there before we sat down at this table. The rest is for me to make heads or tails of and I have a feeling that the less involved he is in that, the better.

"Katniss I can't make heads or tails of this," Peeta suddenly says, making me jolt a little, worried that he might actually be aware what kinds of thoughts are in my head. He is far too good at reading people, in my experience, and I'm not so sure I'm as good at keeping my inner feelings hidden as I would like to be.

"What?" I ask, licking my dry lips.

"Well I'm looking at our last budget and at the list of new expenses they enclosed this week, and there seems to be a discrepancy."

I scowl, though I'm relieved that he's completely focused on the project. I lean forward and he turns his papers around so that I can see what he's talking about, but we're practically sitting opposite one another and with enough distance between us that we both have to lean in to an uncomfortable degree. He's not sure where to point when the papers are upside down and when he turns them around again to get a better look he accidentally drags a few of my sheets of paper with him, creating a bit of a mess. Rolling my eyes I rise from my chair and move around the table, taking a seat next to him instead. Irrational reaction to his proximity be damned, we're here to do a project and if I can't keep my mind on that I've really sold him short by picking him as my partner.

"Here," he says, pointing to a line in the middle of the budget. "See that figure?"

"Yeah."

"Now look at this one…"

As I lean closer to have a good look I catch somebody approaching our table in the corner of my eye. Seconds later my scowl deepens as our peace and quiet is rudely interrupted by a person who I'll be thrilled to never have to see again after school ends.

"Well I'll be damned if my favourite faux-or-no couple isn't diligently busy as ever, closely together."

It is, of course, Peeta's annoying friend Rusty, who seems to be making an infuriating habit these days out of teasing us – or Peeta, really, one should assume.

"Go away Rusty," Peeta and I answer him in one voice, which of course only earns us laughter in return.

"Rust…" adds Peeta in a tone that suggests he's really tiring of this, and he lifts his eyes from the work and looks up at his wrestling buddy, letting his pencil drop.

"You're going to try and protest while you're busy speaking as one?" asks Rusty, and I don't have to look up at him to know he's smirking when he says it. I would have actually had to concede this one point to him if it wasn't for the thing we said being so short and really the only reasonable reply in that situation. I can only imagine they are words he is quite used to hearing. "What's next? Are you guys finishing each other's sentences yet?"

"Maybe you should go over to your own table and finish your own workload," I say dryly, glaring up at him. I rarely, if ever, speak this way to people I don't know but I want him to leave us alone. If he finds me unfriendly that doesn't bother me in the slightest.

Rusty's only response is to pucker his lips and widen his eyes in an overdone fashion before looking to Peeta.

"Is she this spicy when the two of you are alone?"

"I'm not sure, Rusty, seeing as how these days you don't seem to ever _leave_ us alone," answers Peeta with a deceivingly friendly smile, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forward, his upper arm pressing lightly against mine. Then he picks his pencil back up and leans back, reverting to a more indifferent appearance. He looks down on his notepad as he writes something down on the margin, something I presume is mostly just to make him look busy. "I'm starting to wonder if _you're_ not looking to date Katniss. All this attention paid to what we're doing, asking about whether she's… What was the word… Spicy?"

My jaw drops a little and I can't help but send a look Rusty's way but clearly I have nothing to worry about there. Rusty, who has once again taken a seat on our table and this time nearly squashed our envelope, seems to find this notion terribly amusing. I would be offended if I wasn't so relieved. I daresay I want to date him even less than he wants to date me.

"Yeah, no thanks Peeta," he laughs. "I like my girls a little bit more… merchant."

"Yeah?" says Peeta, finishing whatever he's writing and looking back up. "Then would you please go back to your own _merchant_ partner and quit bugging us."

"Oh I can't help stopping by, my friend," smirks Rusty. "There's so much sweetness going on over here that I'm drawn in like a…" Momentarily his brow furrows. "Well – whatever is drawn to honey and other sweet stuff." I roll my eyes. Clearly he's an idiot. "You get the point."

"I really wish I didn't," sighs Peeta.

"Seriously though, Peeta," Rusty says, and something happens then that even I, who don't excel at picking up on social clues, can't miss. For the first time in one of his little visits Rusty sounds utterly serious and he exchanges a look with Peeta that clearly is a conversation unto its own. I don't understand what it's about except that it seems cautioning more than disapproving, though that is only a guess on my part. These two boys have known each other for a while and probably have all sorts of things going on between them that I know nothing of. Whatever it is about Peeta doesn't respond verbally but I can feel him tensing a bit beside me. Rusty, still looking serious, turns to me and while the corners of his mouth turn upward into a smile it's not as jesting as before. His eyes, green rather than the most common merchant blue, still seem serious and his tone makes him sound like he's only half-heartedly trying at levity. "Katniss. Give him a smack on the fingers or a kick in the groin if he tries to get too close to the honeypot." He winks at me and gets down from the table, creating a bit of a mess in the process. "See you at practice, Peeta."

"Good- _bye_ , Rusty," says Peeta without looking at either one of us.

Awkward silence follows Rusty's departure. Peeta has pulled the right side of his bottom lip in-between his teeth and looks rather tense, appearing to give his full attention to the schoolwork in front of him but even if I didn't know him as well as I feel I do by now I would still be a blind idiot if I couldn't tell something was bothering him.

"What was that all about?" I ask.

"Nothing," answers Peeta. I think he's making an effort not to sound curt. "Rusty's just… being a jerk." He's quiet for a moment and I'm just about to ask a follow-up question when he talks again. "He's an idiot. Pay him no mind."

"Sure," I nod, even though I really want to know more about what was going on. I can't help but think it has to do with me, or else why would Rusty choose the project hour to come up and talk to Peeta about it? Why make all those comments about _us_? I make up my mind that if a similar scene occurs in the next week or two I _will_ get more detail from Peeta. Until then I'll try and keep my nose out of his business. "Let's just… pretend he was never here. I would gladly do that." Then I scowl, momentarily losing focus as I think back at one of the things Rusty said directed at me. "What did he mean 'get too close to the honey-pot"?

Peeta rests his arm on the table in a somewhat exasperated way and gives me a very pointed look, for once lacking the warmth and humour he usually addresses me with. The realization hits me and I stammer out an 'oh', quickly picking up my pencil and getting back to work and to minding my own business. I couldn't possibly feel like a bigger idiot. Of course he could only have meant one thing, but when he first made the allusion he was referring to the both of us, to the table in fact, which is why I got confused. I thought it was some sort of merchant expression or something. Obviously I'm just dense.

"Some guys need to get themselves _coited_ more than others…" Peeta says under his breath after a minute or two. "Rusty… needs to never have coitus, and risk spreading his genes. _Ever_."

I can't help but chortle. I dare to look over at Peeta and he glances my way, a muted smile on his face. The mood between us feels better, more relaxed again, but hand in hand with that I become aware again of his close proximity. In an attempt to shift focus back to the issue we were discussing before Rusty interrupted us I move my arm to point at the budget line in question, and in doing so my elbow knocks Peeta's pencil case off the table. I push my chair back and lean down to pick it up. As I do I turn my eyes in the direction of the table where Rusty works with his partner Jill and I catch him looking at us with eyes that – again – seem concerned more than just disapproving. I look the other way immediately, hoping he didn't see me looking at him, and sit back up properly again. I hand the pencil case back to Peeta and force a smile, harking my throat.

"You know, uhm, I… You're right that part does seem odd but I'm sure there's a perfectly sound explanation for it. How about we both give it some thought and a second look during the week and we can check it out again next Monday?"

"Okay," says Peeta with a touch of wariness, no doubt wondering why I think we need a whole week to figure out if a couple of figures really add up. He looks a bit drained to tell the truth, but I don't believe he'll tell me the reason why if I were to ask.

"Great. We'll each go back to what we were doing, then, and save this for next time." The hearty tone in my voice feels fake enough that I cringe inwardly. I reach over and clean up the mess Rusty left behind when he got up from the table, feeling another point of concern rising inside me. Biting my bottom lip hesitantly I cast a quick glance at Rusty and then look at Peeta, whose eyes are back in the books. "Peeta…" I say, lowering my voice. "Listen, can… can Rusty be trusted?"

"That depends, I suppose," he mumbles absent-mindedly. "In what context? Cheating on a test? Keeping a secret? Losing against me in the wrestling tournament?"

"Trusted to keep his mouth shut. I need to know that he won't be going around telling people how _obvious_ he thinks it is that something is going on between Peeta Mellark and that Seam girl whose mother was merchant born." Peeta looks up at me, his expression difficult to read. "It doesn't matter that there's no truth to his claims; the rumour can do just as much damage as an actual truth. Nor does it matter that he might only be joking about it." I can hear myself getting a bit carried away and I reign myself in so that I don't raise my voice further. "And before you speak, I'm not worried about this because Gale doesn't trust me. I'm worried about it because he deserves better than to have people he doesn't even know gossiping about his girlfriend and her project partner."

"Slow down," implores Peeta, and I scowl at him. "Just let me ask, are you guys official now? Because I don't think anyone knows you _have_ a boyfriend. I don't believe Rust would want to cause problems between lovers but if I can't tell him you have a boyfriend, telling him not to mention anything about you and I possibly being attracted to each other would just add fuel to the fire."

"Fine," I say after a moment's pause, my arms crossed. "Sure. Tell him."

"Okay. I will. I don't think he would talk about it anyway, actually, but if it makes you feel better then I'll ask him not to."

"I just hope he won't run off and talk at length just to be a jerk," I mutter, resisting the urge to send a scowl Rusty's way.

"He won't. I assure you. I know he has a… way about him, but he's actually a rather nice guy."

"Yeah," I snort. "That I seriously doubt."

I get up from the chair and walk back to where I was sitting before. Project hour is almost over but there's more than enough work to do and thinking about Gale has made me want to put some space between myself and Peeta. I truly hope Peeta is right and that Rusty hasn't made any comments to anyone yet. I don't believe for a second that he finds my life so interesting that he'd talk to anyone about it but Peeta is a different matter. Peeta Mellark, who from what I can tell doesn't frequent the slag heap, having something going on with a Seam girl would be especially juicy gossip. It makes me seethe inside to think about Gale having to hear people talk about his girlfriend possibly dating somebody else. If Rusty should open his big mouth I'll find a way to make him very, _very_ sorry.

Soon the hour is up and the assembly hall turns into the same noisy and messy place it always is when all the students are getting ready to leave at once. Peeta and I are both stuck in our own minds and don't say anything to one another. I feel a touch of disappointment that we're ending the hour on such a note after the high spirits we began in. I feel I should say something before we part ways, anything that signals that I've enjoyed working with him as much today as any other day. But I can't seem to figure out _what_ to say and Peeta is moving quickly, perhaps so he can have a word with Rusty in private before their practice starts. At least he's smiling softly when he throws his backpack over his shoulder and says goodbye.

"I'll look forward to reading what you pen in your essay about our struggling, straining marriage," he says in a humorous tone that would have made me smile half an hour ago. "And please don't worry about Rusty having a big mouth. I'll take care of it." He gives me a brief smile that warms my heart. "Thanks for today."

"Peeta wait!" I say as he begins to leave. He turns and meets my eyes expectantly. "I believe you about Rusty… But all the same, do one more thing for me, would you? As my school husband."

"Anything. Anything for my project wife."

"Wrestle him to the floor. Quickly. Hard. Repeatedly. Preferably in a way that makes him seem like he can't stand a chance against you." I give my request another second's thought. "And then do the same thing once more."

Peeta chuckles and nods, then heads on his way. I try not to smile widely like a complete idiot and hurry up gathering my things so I can go meet up with Madge.

* * *

With a pensive look on her sweet face Madge leans back against the wall, pulling her legs to her. She's on her bed and I'm sitting in the armchair which she's pulled up close to the bed. It's unreasonably comfortable, this chair. So comfortable in fact that I imagine that the houses in the Victor's Village have similar ones, and homes in the Capitol too. It's definitely more comfortable than her bed –which is both bigger and softer than my own – but Madge insisted that she doesn't like sitting in the chair and wanted to be on the bed instead. A lie no doubt but if she insists I won't argue the point. It's not like she's sitting on the floor. She's not even leaning against the wall itself; there is a very large and very soft pillow in-between her and the dove blue walls. I remember that I used to believe her wallpaper would be pink, and it might have been at some point. This colour suits her though. This whole room suits her, clean and elegant and classy. Cream coloured carpet, cherry wood furniture, a large bay window behind her desk and lace curtains. I could probably sleep in that bay window if I ever stayed over. It's got a lovely view to boot. I imagine Madge sitting by that desk and looking out that window for inspiration when she does her homework or studies for a test.

Schoolwork is the farthest thing from our minds right now though. I've just finished telling her all about what happened yesterday with Gale, all the details I didn't have time for then. Madge hugs her knees while she ponders and I wait for her to say something. Right now I'm not in as big a need for advice as I was twenty-four hours ago; having gotten to talk about it to another person was surprisingly helpful in and of itself.

"What is it that troubles you the most?" Madge finally asks after several minutes of silent pondering. "That you feel he's moving too fast? That you worry he doesn't think you're serious when you say you don't intend on being sexual with him?" How is it that she of all people speaks so naturally of something like that while I struggle not to blush when she mentions it? "That he was with another girl?"

"No it's not the girl. I mean I'm not wild about it but who am I to blame him for things he did before we started dating? He's allowed to have had a life." I let out a short, mirthless laugh. "I'm more wounded that he didn't tell me as a friend."

"That sounds quite odd," she frowns. "Your boyfriend tells you he lost his virginity to somebody else and you're mostly upset that he didn't tell you as a friend?"

"He was allowed a life before we began to date," I stress, scowling and trying not to sound as irritated as I feel about her questioning this.

"Katniss… It's still your boyfriend telling you he's had sex with somebody else. Aren't you jealous?"

I hesitate.

"… Should I be?"

"I don't know," she shrugs. She rests her cheek against her knee and gives me an odd look. "If he slept with somebody else now, how would you feel then?"

"Horrible! I would go after them both with my bow and arrows. But he's my boyfriend _now_ , not… whenever it was he hooked up with whoever _she_ was."

"Sure… _Rationally_ you shouldn't be jealous of things he did before dating you. But love doesn't work on rationale. Not really. Not with things like these."

"Can we forget about his previous… intimate experiences and move on?" I ask, rolling my eyes with exasperation.

"Your reaction to what he told you interests me," says Madge simply.

"Why?"

She lifts her head and narrows her eyes as she studies me in silence for about a minute, while I begin to squirm.

"Do you love Gale?"

The question is simple enough and I'm glad to have an easy answer.

"Sure I do."

"And are you _in_ love with him?"

"Well… sure I am," I reply, though it's obvious that I'm nowhere near as secure in my answer this time. I begin to chew on a finger nail while shifting into a different position, sitting cross-legged on the chair. Madge stays silent, seemingly waiting for me to elaborate which I find annoying. I glare at her but she seems undeterred. "What?"

"You don't have to lie to me."

"Why would I be lying?"

"Because you are."

"Oh that's logical," I scoff.

"It's okay if you're not in love with him," says Madge as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "The point of dating, in the beginning at least, is to find out if you are a good match for one another and give feelings time to develop. Most people aren't _in love_ when they start to date. They like each other, they're attracted to each other, they might have a crush on each other, but falling in _love_ can come later on. You don't have to be in love with Gale right now so long as you really like him and you're attracted to him. The love part can come later."

"Though we're not in the beginning," I point out tiredly, leaning back in the chair with a huff. "It's been… almost three months."

"But you want to be with him? You want to be his girlfriend?"

"Seriously Madge, what's with these questions?" I snarl. "I didn't come here to be questioned about my feelings for the most important guy in my life; I came here because we're apparently on entirely different pages when it comes to the physical stuff and I don't know how to get around that!"

"You could have talked to Gale," Madge suggests.

"Yes but I need to talk to _you_ first to figure out how to talk to _him_!" I argue, my frustration growing by the second.

"You didn't answer my question," she says softly.

I stare at her for what feels like ages, unable to find an answer which frustrates me more than I can say. What's worse, I can feel tears beginning to burn in the corners of my eyes. I'm starting to deeply regret having turned to Madge for advice, the relief I felt a short while ago gone, and I have half a mind to simply stand up and leave. She opens her mouth but I can't bear to hear whatever theory she might have so I find my words and spit them out, hastily wiping the corners of my eyes with my index fingers before full tears can begin to fall.

"Gale is mine. I am his. I cannot and I _will not_ lose him. End of story."

There's a moment's pause. Just when I'm beginning to believe I've convinced her she adds to my frustration even further.

"That's not really an answer to my question either, Katniss."

"What the hell do you want then?" I ask in a very unpleasant tone, and bless her heart for not being offended by the way I'm speaking to her right now.

"I wonder if the real problem between you is that he is in the relationship because he is in love and you are in the relationship because he is your close friend and you love him as such and you are afraid that-"

"I'm with him because I can't bear the thought of anyone else being his girlfriend," I cut her off. "Because _I_ want to be his girlfriend. Alright?"

Madge thankfully takes her eyes off me for a moment, her fingers plucking with a stray thread on her pant leg. I take the moment to look upward and blink repeatedly, forcing away any other tears that might mistakenly think this is a good time to appear. With a deep sigh I then shift, lifting my shoeless feet up on the soft yellow bedspread and resting most of my weight on my left side. I feel mentally exhausted and no closer to figuring anything out then I was an hour ago. It can't be that Madge was right in what she tried to say. I'm not with Gale _only_ to preserve our friendship. It may have started out like that but – no, that's not true either. We're supposed to be together. That's what everyone says and they say it for a reason. It's the only thing that makes sense. I can't imagine Gale being with somebody else and doesn't that mean I have feelings for him? All this awkwardness in our relationship, isn't that only natural when friends take the leap into being more than friends? The physicality issues, that's because he hasn't realized yet that I truly mean to never have sex. That's all there is, and once we're clear on that – _fully_ clear on that – things will be okay.

But I don't truly believe that. Not really. Not the part about our physical relationship. If I did, why would I be here in the first place?

"And what about Peeta?"

Madge's question is so unexpected that I look at her blankly, blinking in confusion.

"What about Peeta? What does he have to do with anything?"

"Katniss I'm not blind," Madge says gently, tilting her head as she gives me another look that really annoys me. "I've never seen you smile this much in all the years I've known you, never smile as you've done in a few short months working with him."

"I smile!" I say defensively. "I've always smiled! Mostly out in the woods perhaps, but I smile! In the woods, with _Gale_."

"I see the way you look at Peeta, too. The way you look at each other."

"Madge. I'm telling you there's nothing going on between him and me. And I absolutely do not want to talk about it as if there _was_ something. Can you please respect that?"

"Yeah," she says. "Just help me understand. Because from where I'm sitting you're having intimacy problems with a boy you love but don't really love _like that_ , meanwhile you light up like the fireworks in the Victory Tour party at Snow's palace whenever Peeta Mellark speaks three words to you."

"I like Peeta," I admit, worrying by bottom lip between my teeth. "He's… nice. And clever. We make a good – a _great_ team for the project. But I would say no if he asked me on a date, even if I were single."

"There are a lot of reasons why you might say no that aren't that you don't like him," claims Madge, much to my exasperation. I would have never expected her to be this forthright. I thought she might have a few words of advice to offer and maybe even be a shoulder to – well, not cry, but _sigh_ on. Not much else.

"Look," I say. "We have an attraction to one another on a _friend_ basis. And I don't want us to be friends when the project is over, which might be adding a bit of extra… tension."

"Can I ask why?" says Madge after struggling for a moment to find words.

"When would we even hang out, for starters? We have no place in each other's worlds. He's a popular merchant boy, I'm a _not_ popular Seam girl. I have things in common with you but not all that many things with him." I make a face. "And it makes Gale uncomfortable."

"You'd turn your back on a friendship because your boyfriend doesn't approve?"

"No. But Gale's feelings are more important to me than a potential friendship with someone I'll barely see anyway." I shrug. "I guess I'm just enjoying spending time with Peeta as friends and I wish I didn't because we won't be friends once the project is over. When school ends we'll probably never speak again."

"Don't you barter with his father on Sundays?"

"With the baker. Not his sons."

"Well then…" Madge says, shrugging her shoulders as if she's giving up. "I'm not sure what to tell you. I think you like Peeta more than you let on and Gale _less_ than you let on but that's only my assessment of the situation. I'm fairly certain there's a whole lot you're not telling me and that's all your prerogative. Only you can know for sure what you truly do feel. But if the problem lies elsewhere I'm not sure what advice I can give you, other than to talk to your boyfriend. You're such good friends and you've always been able to talk about things before. Why not now?"

"It's just odd," I mumble. "Feelings are involved now… and I don't want to hurt his."

"Why not at least give him the chance? Maybe talking to him about this will be so much easier than you think?"

"Maybe," I mutter. Thinking back on past experiences though, I doubt it. I feel I _have_ made myself clear where I stand on the issue of sex but I don't feel like Gale understands that I truly mean it. He seems to think it's just a phase I'm going through, that I will one day mature or something and realize I want to be married and have infinite number of babies and be somebody that I'm not today. I wish I could talk to Madge about this but I don't want her to get the wrong idea about him, or my feelings for him. I wish I could talk to her about why he seems to want me to change into somebody different when he says he wants _me_ more than anything.

"Give it a shot," says Madge. "And listen – give everything with Peeta a second thought. Because believe me Katniss, if your heart lies more with him the truth will come out sooner or later. Sooner, you might be able to salvage your friendship with Gale. Later, and it will be damaged forever."

"No," I say while shaking my head. "No Madge, I truly meant what I said before. Gale matters more than Peeta. I'll never risk losing Gale over the baker's son."

What I don't tell her is what I believe to be the true reason why I feel more and more connected with Peeta. He saved my life! It's a debt I will never be able to repay and now that I've begun to get to know him it's going to be more difficult to walk away from spending time with him. But it has to be done. For Gale, if for no other reason.

And, as I'm beginning to understand deep down inside, for Peeta. A romantic relationship with me would put his whole world in jeopardy. His family, his friends, everything. I cannot pursue a relationship with him unless I'm prepared to go all in – I couldn't let him endanger everything for me under any less circumstances. And if I did come to care that much for him I wouldn't be able to let him risk that much.

I quite simply could never _be_ with the boy with the bread. And I don't see the use in torturing myself by thinking about it any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, it's been so long since I read the books that I can't really remember how Madge spoke and how she moved. So I kind of guessed and built something from that. I hope she didn't seem terribly out of character. I think she ended up fairly close to her book-self. Originally the chapter was going to open with Katniss having the talk with Madge but I thought it worked better at the end of the chapter so I made up an excuse why they end up talking on Monday instead of Sunday.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and I hope you'll tell me what you thought of it!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh. It's really been forever since I last updated. I can only apologise, and do my best not to take so long in the future. It's been a pretty crazy and exhausting year so far but I finally finished chapter 20 today so here it is! And I literally just wrote the final words and now I'm posting it, so I haven't read through it at all in its entirety. I hope it will work fine - I find my chapters tend to be a bit uneven when I have long breaks while writing it.
> 
> Well, anyway, enough of me chattering. If you're still around you're here for the story, not for my forewords.

"This is all complete and utter bullshit," Gale spits out. It's Sunday morning, we're out in our glade and he's been growling about the government in increasingly loud tones for the past twenty-or-so minutes. At this point I'm not even sure anymore what set it off or what the original issue was, but it doesn't really matter. I've heard almost all of it before, several times in fact. So I sit silently beside him on the log, wondering how bad his week has been in the mines when he arrives out here in such a mood. "You know what I just can't stand?" he goes on. "I can't stand how every year that damn airheaded twit Effie Trinket stands up there and _hails_ the Hunger Games as not only exciting but a _just and righteous_ punishment. As if _any_ of the kids standing there fearing for their lives, or any of their _parents_ for that matter, fought in the uprising. As if even if they had, the Hunger Games would be acceptable. I mean, do those fools in the Capitol actually _believe_ any of that?" He scoffs, snorts, shakes his head in utter disbelief. "Effie Trinket sure seems to. I keep wondering if she genuinely is that stupid. If they all are, out there in the Capitol."

"I suppose that if you're told that's how it is from a very early age you grow up believing that it's true." Rubbing my mitten-clad hands together to generate warmth I look over at his gloveless hands, beginning to turn red. He is so caught up in his frustration that he barely seems to be aware that it's ten degrees below freezing. Perhaps his angered gesturing is helping to keep his body heat up.

"You and I have had to hear that crap every single year, just like everyone else here in District Twelve, and we don't believe it."

"That's because we also see the ugly side of it. Our parents don't exactly tell us it's the most fun event of the year." He gets up and begins to walk back and forth in the glade and I watch him from my spot on the log. "Either way, what good does it do to talk about it?"

"You're right. You're exactly right. Talking is useless. Talking won't get us anywhere. But we can't do anything _more_ than talking. Not right now at least. But someday… Someday, Catnip…"

He paces back and forth for almost fifteen minutes, ranting and raging and giving the occasional kick to a shrubbery or a rock. I sit silently the entire time, aside from the occasional acknowledging hum, knowing that he just needs someone to listen. He needs to vent all the frustration and fear he bottles up six days a week in the mines. I know all this anger has to do with more than the Capitol and the Games; it has to do with everything in his life that hurts and frightens. Gale is one of the bravest people I know but that doesn't mean he isn't afraid at times. He's good at keeping his fears hidden, I suspect to the point that he loathes having to acknowledge some of his fears even to himself. But like all of us he needs an outlet, and that outlet is to rage out here in the woods. If the only thing I can do to help him is sit here and listen then that is what I will do.

Finally he stops and looks at me, the look in his grey eyes haunting.

"I can't help it, Catnip. I hate them. I wish that I didn't, and I'm not proud of it, but I do. I hate the control they have over our lives. I hate that they not only forced me to stand there in front of the Justice Building for seven straight years worrying that Effie would say my name but that I will still be standing there for years and years to come fearing that the name Hawthorne will be read. I hate that because I was born in the Seam I have no prospects other than slaving in the mines, the very mines that killed my father. Who the hell are they to decide what I should do for work? Why am I not as good as those blonde haired, pretty-eyed, fairer skinned people who happen to have come into the world in town? Why should they have the choice of working at this shop or that shop or the Justice Building even? Your golden-haired project partner, he's not going to be thrown into the mines when his brother takes over the bakery."

"That's not his fault."

"Of course it isn't. I'm not mad at _him_. It's just completely unreasonable that he should have so many options and I don't, solely because of where we were born." He stops next to a tree, reaching his hand out to brace his weight against the trunk. His hand is now bright red from the cold and the coarse bark of the tree ought to hurt a bit but he doesn't appear to be aware of any of it. "If he gets a better job than me based on skill and merit then I congratulate him for it but the truth is because he's from town he won't ever have to compete with the likes of me. We will never be measured by the same yardstick."

"Perhaps not but his name goes into the reaping bowl too, same as yours."

"Yeah, seven slips exactly. Never a single one for tesserae."

"I could say the same for Rory, Vick and Posy," I point out with a soft smile.

"Not exactly the same, but thanks, I guess…" He sighs heavily and runs a hand through his thick, greasy hair. "Tesserae… What a joke."

There's a moment's pause, and in Gale's silence I consider some of the things he just said about Peeta – about the merchants. I know he feels his lot in life is unfair compared to the merchants but I find it strange for him to speak of townsfolk like they were privileged on nearly the same level as Capitol citizens. They may be better off than us, but if anyone could have the choice they certainly would choose better than to be townies in this district. Gale doesn't see that, though. All he sees is the options they have that we don't, the way the names in the reaping bowls tend to be skewered due to the tesserae system, yet another element that oppresses him, that everyone that isn't Seam seems to have it better off. Peeta didn't choose to be born the son of a baker, any more than Gale chose to be born the son of a coalminer, yet the roll of fate's dice fell favourably for Peeta and everyone else in town, and for the likes of me and Gale we ended up born into essentially nothing. At least that's the way Gale sees it, the way I used to see it to be honest, but the more I learn about my project partner the more I come to understand that some of those privileges are merely on a surface level. I wish I could make Gale see that too and grow past the way he sees things now. It's a dangerous way to look at the world, and I wish he would try and see things from a different viewpoint, one that's not as emotionally destructive.

Gale looks over at me, dismay, tenderness and a hint of desperation all mixed into his face and his intense grey eyes. I feel a stab of pain in my heart, wishing I could undo everything that causes him to feel so beaten down. He has so much pride and dignity. He shouldn't have to be feeling like this.

"I mean, Katniss… They even control how we live our lives. If it weren't for the Hunger Games you and I could get married when you're old enough and you wouldn't have to be afraid of having children."

"Gale do _you_ really want to have children?" I ask, bracing myself now that the subject has been brought up. "Knowing that it will be even worse if their names were called than if Vick's or Rory's or Posy's? Knowing that one or more of them probably will take out tesserae and increase the risk of being drawn?"

"I would love to have kids," he says, is voice softer now. He walks over and sits down beside me, wrapping an arm around me. I rest my head against his shoulder as he rubs my arm in a way that suggests to me that it's a lot more for his comfort than for mine. I take his other hand between my own and begin to rub it, hoping to warm it up a bit. "If we didn't live here I would be all for it. I would like to have a lot of kids. Teach them how to hunt, teach them how to find edible plants, take them exploring in the woods…"

"Yeah but we _do_ live here," I point out, keeping in a sigh and wishing he would stop adding the 'if only' stuff like teaching his would-be kids this or that. It doesn't help, it only harms. We've had similar discussions before and I fear he's only going to start talking about it more often now that he apparently feels he must convince me for real.

"I know, Catnip," he says.

"So what's the point of dreaming that it could be different? Why torture yourself that way? We might as well wish for our fathers to come back to life."

He's silent for a moment, staring out at the frosty nature that surrounds us. The ground and the tree branches are covered in snow and a light snowfall comes from the sky above, which in this weather is bright white, making the entire world seem white and the line between sky and ground difficult to see. A pack of magpies sound their cackling cry somewhere nearby, disturbing the moment of silence. Gale's breath comes out in white puffs of air, the chill in the air making his cheeks look rosy. He looks healthy out here in the woods, the winter weather bringing life to his cheeks during this time of year and the summer sun giving him a tan during the other half of the year. It can almost masquerade the tell-tale signs that he spends six days a week toiling in the mines under dreadful conditions. I wish I could keep him here, right here in this glade, all year round. I wish I could protect him from what awaits him every morning when he heads down to those cold, humid, sterile tunnels deep beneath the surface of the earth. But I can't shield him from that, no more than I can change the impossible world in which any kids we might have would be growing up in.

"Dreaming is pointless – dangerous even," I add when the silence has stretched out for several minutes and I can't stomach his sudden lack of words.

"Dreaming won't get us anywhere," he agrees after a few more minutes of silence between us. His brow is furrowed, his eyes cold and determined. "We have to fight."

"Fight?"

"It's the only way. But I fear it won't happen during our lifetimes. At least not early enough to save us."

"Gale," I say, his name coming in a mirthless chortle. "Really, you're talking nonsense now."

"I'm not." His eyes are hard, full of determination. His jaw is clenched.

"Yes, you are." I lean my head against his shoulder and rest my hand on his leg, giving his thigh a reassuring squeeze. "Fight? Against the Capitol? The last time people tried that we ended up with the Hunger Games. Now we're even worse equipped to rise up against them. It's not going to happen so there's no point in wasting energy hoping for it. That energy is needed elsewhere. You know we can't afford pipedreams."

"What I'm talking about is not a _pipe dream_ ," he vehemently objects, but I don't back down.

"No, it's worse in a way. Not only is it never going to happen, it's very dangerous to even be thinking about it inside the fence. Gale you know this!"

"I can't just conform to the tyranny they're subjecting us to," Gale replies heatedly. "I know you're right but how long can this go on? There must come a breaking point!"

"I don't know. Maybe…" I run my hand up and down his thigh, giving it a squeeze that's meant to be comforting and a little bit apologetic. "But until then we're stuck living in District 12 and we're stuck fighting starvation and we're stuck with the Hunger Games. Those are the cards we've been dealt." I bring the subject back around to where it started, hoping he will begin to really see the point. "Those are the circumstances under which you have to decide if you want to have children."

He's quiet for a moment and I almost believe the conversation to be over. The magpies won't shut up but other than that the woodland animals aren't making themselves known. A fresh breeze blows through our glade and my mind begins to drift towards spring and the woods coming back to life, but Gale's mind stays on the previous topic.

"I wouldn't mind having kids. Even living here, I still think I would like to have kids. I don't want the Capitol to take that away from me, too."

"Sure," I say icily, lifting my head off his shoulder. "So much better to let them take your actual children and put them to death for all of Panem to see. Nothing's going to change during our lifetime, Gale." I give him a stern look but I'm not sure it has any effect on him. "We don't have the means to fight. Life in Twelve is what it is. And the Hunger Games are going nowhere."

* * *

For two hours, we walk down our old familiar paths, checking the snares – all but one empty – and searching for prey. Gale manages to bring down a couple of birds. We gather what edible plants we can find. I wish I had time to go down to the lake and carve bark from the willow trees to bring to my mother, but it's close to lunchtime already and we need to be heading back soon. Along the way we stop at the glade again to divide our spoils between us.

I'm sitting on the log with the things we've gathered piled on my lap, trying to figure out how to best split it. I don't think it's fair to take half each when Gale's family has two more people, and sometimes one of our families has more of one thing and less or none of something else, so that goes into account as well. Gale is drumming his foot against the snowy ground, seeming impatient or still angry. When I glance at him I see he's biting his lower lip and has his eyes fixed on some spot in the distance.

"This is such a joke," he eventually grumbles. "Except not the least bit funny."

"What's a joke?" I ask patiently, taking a handful of winter berries and putting them in Gale's pile.

"That we spend all these hours out here and _this_ is all we have to bring home to our families."

"It's more than most people have," I remind him mildly.

"Yeah… That's kind of the point. It's so messed up." He sighs quietly. "How can people live their whole lives like this?"

"Because it's the only option available to us," I sigh. I make a final decision in the dividing process and begin stuffing my takings into my bag. "Come on Gale, nobody in District 12 likes this any more than you do. Can we please not talk about this more today?"

"Alright."

"Good." I nod to the pile sitting on the log next to me. "What do you want to do with your share of the non-meats? If we want to make it to the Hob we have to hurry up."

He sits down beside me with another sigh, yet when I look at him he's got a small smile on his face, like he's trying to better the mood. He's looking at me rather strangely, actually – as if he's trying to read me or something.

"Is everything alright with you?" he asks is a kind tone of voice. It throws me for a bit of a loop because it's such a contrast from mere moments ago.

"With _me_?"

"Yeah, you…" The smile on his face falters a bit. "You've been so distant with me lately. Like you're miles away in your mind. Even… Even when we kiss – sometimes. Where do you go?"

"Distant?" I echo with scepticism. Wasn't it a mere week ago that I was making out with him on his bed? But I don't want to talk more today; I want to head back home and start preparing an early supper. Putting on a half-hearted smile I try to deflect his question with a joke. "Come on Gale, you know me better than anyone. You know I don't have the imagination to be somewhere else entirely in my mind." I rise and bend down to pick up my quiver and my bow, pushing back the braid that falls over my shoulder in the process.

"Yeah…" he replies. "I _do_ know you better than anyone."

The implication seems clear enough that I feel my cheeks flush. He knows I'm not being entirely truthful but he's letting me off the hook. I reward him with a more genuine smile and a quick kiss, and when I pull back his hand lands on the back of my neck and keeps me close as he presses a gentle, loving kiss on my temple.

"Gale…" I say softly, all at once both a bit ashamed at not being entirely truthful with him and moved by his displays of tenderness and understanding. "I'm always right here."

"Okay," he nods, his voice quiet.

"I think we're still not quite settled in to our new roles, is all. We'll get there."

Judging by the look on his face he wonders if we shouldn't already _be_ there but he doesn't say anything. He just gives my brow another kiss, finds my hand and squeezes it and then moves away from me to grab his own hunting gear and his game bag.

"Come on, love bug," he says, uttering the endearment in such a comical way that I know he's trying to get me to laugh, and I do indeed chuckle. "Let's go put our weapons away and head back to the Meadow. It's late in the day already."

"Let's do that," I nod, relieved that the conversation – at least for the time being – is over. With Gale in the kind of mood he's been in today I can't imagine having a conversation about what goes on in my mind sometimes when we kiss without ending up in an argument.

"And maybe you can let me be chivalrous and treat my best gal to a bowl of Greasy Sae's stew?" Gale says, holding out his hand for me to take.

"That sounds nice," I smile, taking his hand in mine even though I find it so impractical to walk through the woods holding hands. The paths are too narrow for us to walk side by side which to me negates the need for the handholding.

We begin our walk back towards the Meadow and the fences. As we walk I catch the hint of warmth in the breeze that has begun to blow – not much but one of the first signs this year of spring approaching. Or it may just be nothing, a coincidence or just something my mind cooked up on its own out of a longing for winter to finally be over. Whatever the case may be, the thought of spring drawing near fills my heart with both relief and joy. I can't wait for the cold, dark season to be behind us. Even though spring also means the end of school and the Hunger Games lurking around the corner.

* * *

The following afternoon springtime seems far away again, though it's actually a beautiful day outside with the sun shining from a bright blue sky and no icy winds blowing. It's gotten colder again though, which isn't that big of a surprise since it's only February. Peeta and I follow our agreed upon plan from last week and head to the library, me hurrying to pick the best available table and Peeta rushing to grab as many good biology and cognitive theory books as he can find. He comes back with a pile of seven or eight, enough that I'm a little concerned the pile is going to topple over and he'll drop them on the floor. He sets them down on the table with a loud bang that turns a nearby head or two.

"Geez Peeta. How many books do you think we need?" I ask, lifting the cover of the book at the top of the pile. It's old and has that old book smell about it, the pages having turned yellow years ago and the cover so faded that I can barely read it. "And don't you think we ought to go for the more… recent books?"

"How many recent books do you think this library has?" he replies dryly, pulling out the chair next to mine and taking a seat. He brushes a blond curl from his eyes and wiggles out of his backpack, setting it down on the empty chair on his other side and starts to rummage through it in search of everything he might be using this hour.

"Fair enough…" I say with somewhat reluctance. "But do you really think we'll have the time to go through all these books today?"

"No, probably not," he says in a completely carefree tone. "I just grabbed anything I could find that seemed to have something in it about babies and development. Fiction section excluded," he adds with a boyish wink.

"All books on those topics?" I question, setting the top book to the side and beginning to leaf through the second one. "What about our classmates who might need a book or two? They get the fiction?"

"I didn't take every _copy_ of every book," he replies, sounding amused. "There are, like… three or four books left back there." He finishes unpacking his bag and sits up straight, flashing me a smile. "You know, it's an eat-or-be-eaten world, Miss Everdeen. If our classmates wanted those books so badly they could have made sure to get here first."

"Wow, I had no idea you had such a competitive streak."

"I'm an athlete," he replies with a small, crooked smile. "Compete is what I do." His face suddenly changes as a thought occurs to him and he begins rummaging through his backpack again. "Oh, we should exchange essays right away. Before we forget."

"Yeah, let's," I say, unable to conceal my displeased groan. I enjoyed writing the essay actually but I feel so nervous handing it to Peeta and letting him read it. What if he thinks what I wrote is stupid? What if he thinks my thoughts and concerns are ridiculous or that I would be a shrew of a wife? His essay will no doubt be close to perfect, both in whatever viewpoints he expresses and how he expresses them. I get the feeling that Peeta Mellark knows what things you should – and more importantly _shouldn't_ – say in an essay like this and will have chosen what things to express around that. Not that I think he just made his whole essay up wholesale, but I believe he knows to withhold some things. I, on the other hand, seem to lack such a filter.

My heart sinks a bit when I take the essay he hands over to me. I count five pages filled with Peeta's neat and tidy penmanship. How does he find the time to do stuff like this? I enjoyed writing mine but it was a time-consuming task, taking up most of my evenings this past week while I wondered what things to express and how to best express them, making several different drafts and then finally writing it down into the finished product. Mine is just over two pages in length and I hate that my handwriting isn't as neat and nice as Peeta's.

"Great," he says with a good dose of enthusiasm, giving my work only a brief glance before putting it in his large notepad to keep it from getting wrinkled up in his bag. "I'm looking forward to reading it."

"Likewise," I tell him, making sure I put his essay away safely too. I really am looking forward to reading it. Right now though I have a large pile of biology and psychology textbooks to rummage through. "By the way, did you bring the other textbook?" I ask, lowering my voice and glancing around to make sure no one is too closely nearby.

"Uh-huh," he nods somewhat absentmindedly, studying the index at the back of one of the books and making page notes on his pad. "You?"

"Yeah. It's still in my bag, though."

He gives me a grin that would annoy me if it wasn't so disarmingly charming.

"You have nothing to worry about, Katniss. Even if they do 'catch us' with that book in here no one's going to care. They're earmarked for destruction anyway."

"Yeah. It's not that." I grimace, feeling a touch awkward. "It just feels so… in-your-face. We…" I lower my voice to a whisper for the next two words, " _broke in_ into a room we weren't supposed to be. Sitting here openly reading those books seems like asking for a trip to the principal's office, just for the principle of the thing. Pun not intended."

"You're Katniss Everdeen," says Peeta while smiling at me like my name was similar in status to the most popular winners of the Games. He keeps his voice low so that people won't overhear us but there's a light in his eyes while he talks that makes me forget he's practically whispering. "You sneak out past the fences and into those woods every single week. You do far more daring things than borrow a couple of old textbooks."

"Borrow?" I question, a smile starting to appear on my face. Mostly because I'm amused at his choice of words but also in part because the way he's talking about me is making me feel… proud, I guess is the word. Still, I don't see much similarity between my hunting in the woods and us stealing into a hidden room at the library and taking books we're not supposed to have. Hunting is a necessity for survival and it doesn't harm anyone – game excluded. Taking those books was _not_ a necessity exactly and probably not worth the consequences, should there be any. I don't regret what we did per se, it's just that it feels a bit wrong. Hunting has never felt that way to me. I don't plan on elaborating on this for Peeta, though, so I act indifferent, perhaps a touch amused even.

"You can't tell me you're intimidated by that little daring-do of ours," Peeta smiles. He then furrows his brow and tilts his head, the smile fading into a serious expression. "Is something else going on, Katniss? Something worrying you?"

"No!" I quickly assure him. "No, no, not at all. Just, you know… It feels a bit brazen to be reading that textbook openly in the library."

"We can hide it under the other books," he winks and I laugh a little.

"Yes. We can do that." I reach forward and brush aside another strand of his ashen hair and his smile returns. "By the way, I was thinking we should divide this up between us. One of us takes the psychology bits, mental development and all that, and the other one takes the somatic bits."

"Sure," he nods. "Yeah. Great idea. Which part do you want?"

"Somatic!" I say, almost a little too fast.

I doubt he's going to protest, he's far too much of a gentleman for that, but all the same I do have a little defence speech ready. He understands people's minds better than I do, I can ask my mother about the physiology and all that, et cetera. The bottom line though is I can't imagine that I would do a good job with the aspects that relate to the mind and Peeta seems to have a knack for it - and I just don't find any of that stuff interesting. I would much rather focus on the somatic parts, the parts that are about physical development and which can be described in simple, factual terms. Writing about various theories and such frustrates me to no end. This person theorizes this, this person theorizes that, nobody actually knows anything for a _fact_ and nothing can be proven yet they go on and on and on about it and describe it in ridiculously complicated terms and we're supposed to learn them and reference them for reasons unknown. It's not for me. I want tangible facts, one correct answer to each question, the end.

"Okay," says Peeta, as predicted offering no objections to my request.

"Great!" I say, trying to hide my relief. It's odd, but I can feel my heart beating faster and my whole body having riled itself up in case I had to make my little defence speech. Even though I knew I most likely wouldn't have to and even though it's not even that big a deal. Everything that's going on around me these days, with the upcoming life changes and the final reaping and working out all relationship issues with Gale, seems to be getting to me a bit more than I expected.

"Alright then," Peeta says, opening a large and presumably very old book. A minor cloud of dust flies up in the air and he coughs, then sneezes. The sound is kind of cute and I relax a little bit more and almost manage a smile. Peeta looks at the first page, tilts his head a bit to the right and nods slightly. "Jean Piaget – whoever you are, it seems I'm about to get to know you better." He struggles quite a lot with the surname and makes a face afterward that I can only describe as unintentionally goofy. "Obviously I botched his name, so right from the get-go this is turning out fantastic."

"Indeed. Enjoy your budding friendship with mister… what's-his-name," I say, giving up on the name without even trying. All I have to go on anyway is Peeta's bungled pronunciation; I don't even know how it's spelled. Peeta laughs briefly, but heartily, and turns to a blank page in his notebook to begin his work properly.

"Thanks Katniss. It's good to know I have your moral support."

"Hey, what are fake spouses for?"

He makes a dramatic face and gives me a theatrical air kiss. Without really thinking about what I'm doing I return the gesture, two kisses in rapid succession. He smiles so widely it's as if the whole room lights up a bit. I smile too, though not as widely as him, and roll my eyes before shifting focus to the array of textbooks he brought. I pick one at random and page through the table of contents, hoping to find some good information inside.

"I can't believe we still have books in our school library spouting theories on didactics and mental development and stuff like that, in which the theories were old even before the _dark days_ ," notes Peeta with a chuckle. "I mean, honestly – spring for some fresh material, District 12."

"Eh, it's probably the Capitol that demands we use those books," I say with a shrug of my shoulder. "You know how big they are on tradition."

"Fair point. You got me there." He flashes me a grin and a wink, then harks and shifts his face into a serious expression so fast it almost makes me giggle. I manage to keep my own face serious and with a hark of my own I let my eyes leave my project spouse and focus instead on the workload.

We sit there and work, the new milieu surprisingly comfortable and relaxing. I've done school work in the library before but not much this year and not really with Peeta for the project. It's much quieter than the assembly room, the furnishing and the atmosphere in general is cosier – for lack of a better word – and it's even a degree or two warmer than most other rooms in the building. I find I quite like it. Perhaps we should go here and work in the future as well. We would be abandoning our favourite table but we could always find us another one in here. And there's the added bonus of neither Rusty nor Mallory being around to bother us.

Out of nowhere the serenity around us is disturbed by a soft humming. It's coming from Peeta, which surprises me a great deal. I look up at him and find him looking to be completely engrossed in the book he's reading. His elbow is on the table and his chin and cheek rest in his hand, his head tilted a bit to the side. Underneath the table I can feel his foot brushing lightly against mine as it swings to and fro in rhythm with his humming. He's not loud about it or anything but it's still perplexing and it doesn't really belong at the library. The oddest thing about it is I'm not even sure he's aware that he's doing it. I take a quick look around and spot someone two tables over looking over at us with a puzzled expression on their face.

"Peeta," I say under my breath, hoping to be discreet. "Stop humming."

"Mmm?" he responds, looking up at me with a somewhat questioning look.

"You're humming the Valley Song."

"Really?" His cheeks turn red. "Oh. Geez, I didn't even realize. I'm sorry." With a cringe he looks over his shoulder to see if anyone seems to have taken notice of his musicality. "That's embarrassing."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it. I'm pretty sure only I heard you, and I thought it was a little bit cute." A wide smile spreads across my face and I chuckle softly. "You honestly didn't know you were humming?"

"No, not really." He makes an awkward face and the hand which his head was just resting on now reaches back and begins to scratch or massage his neck. "I guess I was just miles away in my mind. Oh don't give me that sceptical look. Haven't you ever done that?"

I know he's referring to the humming without really realizing it part, but my mind sticks on the part about being miles away in your mind. Gale's words, the look on his face when he said them, the way things felt between us in that moment, all of it floats back and begins to form one of those uncomfortable knots in the pit of my stomach. I brace myself, gathering my inner strength but making sure none of what is going on inside is visible on the exterior. This won't do. This isn't something I can be wrapped up in thinking about while we're doing our school work.

"My mind's not really much of a traveller," I lie, hoping Peeta won't find that comment meriting further discussion or prodding. I like the guy but he can be awfully nosy at times. I shrug my shoulder as if to signal that I consider the matter unworthy of a conversation and I turn my eyes back to my textbook. "And I definitely don't hum, or sing."

"That's not true," he says. His voice is kind, warm even, but I scowl when I look back up at him.

"No, really," I say with emphasis. "I don't do that. _Anymore_."

He looks uncomfortable, flashing me a quick apologetic smile before turning all his attention to the work in front of him. Obviously he wants to move on from this particular conversation as fast as possible. I feel uncomfortable too, having no more wish to talk about singing than talking about my sometimes-wandering mind. I know he means that I have a good singing voice, I've sung at school a handful of times when I was younger, but it's not something I do more than on rare occasions now. Peeta and I may have begun to develop an actual friendship to some degree but this is not something I feel he has the right to ask lots of questions about, and on that matter I am grateful to him for reading my cues and quickly shifting his attention elsewhere. Singing died with my father, more or less, and that's all there is to say about it.

We spend the next five or ten minutes working quietly, nothing heard but pages turned and pencils scribbling. Soon I start to find the silence bothersome. I don't want the atmosphere between Peeta and me to be uncomfortable. Things with Gale are complicated right now, things with my mother are never all that fantastic, things with Prim are starting to change with her aging and that's not entirely easy for me… I can't quite explain it but it sort of feels like the hour I spend with Peeta every week should be easy and light spirited. It's probably the least significant relationship in my life at the moment and as such it shouldn't be bogged down by drama or foul moods or anything like that. I would like just one hour of my week to be spent in unchallenging company. I don't want it to feel the way it does at this moment. Not that Peeta and I are arguing, but we're not at our finest right now either.

"The more I read about this, the more pointless everything seems," I hear myself sigh heavily. Then I laugh slightly at myself. Way to lighten the mood there, Katniss. Peeta's face is the picture of confusion when he looks up at me, his blue eyes wide and puzzled. "Sorry, I was just… I don't know. I meant to say something, you know, lightly conversational and instead said, well, _that_."

"It did sound kind of dreary," Peeta remarks. Already I can tell by his voice that the mood between us has lightened, and he's probably going to start trying to get me to smile again. "And not just a little bit confusing," he continues. "You read about how a child physically develops between birth and early adolescence and somehow forests and districts and potatoes lose their meaning."

"That's not quite what I meant," I say, struggling not to laugh. Seriously – potatoes? But my desire to laugh quickly dies when I think about what I truly did mean. The smile fades from my face and Peeta's face turns solemn as well, his head tilting to the left as he listens to me. "I just meant… What I meant to say was… It just… You know, parents spend all that time, money, effort and affection raising an infant into a child. Children spend all those years growing and learning and shaping who they should become. And then Effie effin' Trinket pulls one of their names from a reaping ball and it's all snuffed out. Like _that_ ," I finish with a snap of my fingers.

Peeta nods slowly. He grabs his pencil and underlines something in the textbook in front of him, then jots down the page number on the page open in his notepad. He's got each of his textbook titles written down there and each page he wants to revisit noted with it. He's so meticulous. I like that about him. Then he pushes the book to the side and crosses his arms on the table, leaning closer.

"I know," he says. "I know. It's… stupid and unfair and… and frankly I can't think of words heavy enough to accurately describe it."

"It's complete and utter bullshit," I say, staring distantly over his shoulder while I think back on the previous day and Gale's long rants in the woods. I'm not sure why but something about reading how a child grows and develops seems to make the senselessness of the Hunger Games even more staggeringly clear than before.

"Yeah," says Peeta contemplatively. "I suppose."

"You _suppose_?"

"It's…" He pauses and looks around to see if anyone is close enough to overhear. There's nobody sitting at the nearest tables but the general volume is so low in here that voices carry much further. He gets up and walks over to my side of the table, pulling out the chair next to me and sitting down, leaning in closer to me as he speaks, his voice a bit muted. "It's tyranny, Katniss. I don't know if I necessarily call that _bullshit_ because it's far too serious for that."

"And yet you sound completely casual when you talk about it," I remark dryly.

"Do I?"

" _Yes_ ," I say, my eyes staring into his, my brow furrowed. There's none of Gale's anger, passion and battle in Peeta's tone of voice. He sounds academic, if anything.

"I'm not casual."

"Well you're certainly not angry either."

"No."

"N… no?" His easy dismissal of my accusation surprises me probably more than anything else he's ever said or done.

"I just don't think that me being angry is going to resolve anything," says Peeta. "I hate the Games as much as you do, as much as anyone does, but me being infuriated about it is not going to change anything."

"Just accepting it won't change anything either," I point out, thinking of Gale and his many rants against the Capitol.

"No, I know," says Peeta. "But, I mean... I have two brothers. If one of them had gotten reaped and died in the arena I would have been devastated and I would rage at the unfairness of it all." He looks pensive for a second, as if pondering how to best phrase what he wants to say next. I wait, almost with bated breath. He looks up at me and gestures with his hands, like that would help him find the words. Gale often does a lot of hand-gesturing during his rants, but Peeta's movements are softer, more restrained. Then he speaks. "Say that that had happened and I had the chance to go to the Capitol and kill President Snow's granddaughter in retaliation."

I nod my head slowly. I've heard Gale talk about similar scenarios though never quite so explicit and certainly not anywhere other than the relative sanctuary of the woods. I didn't even know the president had a granddaughter, unless Peeta is just talking in hypothetical terms.

"I'm with you so far," I say.

"If I did that then how am I any better? An eye for an eye, an arm for an arm... I don't buy into all that. Someone once said that an eye for an eye would make the entire world blind, and all that would happen in the end is that I would be just the same as the people we all think so poorly of, those who do this to us every year."

"You wouldn't be," I say, though as I say the words I'm not sure I believe them. I haven't actually thought along those lines before. Again I think of Gale and what he would say in response to this. "They would have taken your brother and they would have killed him on television for the sake of entertainment, after pushing him to try and kill other kids. You can't compare the two."

"I think you can," argues Peeta. "A life is a life, no matter what. President Snow's granddaughter's life is not worth more than anyone else's just because of where she was born and what family she was born into but it's not worth _less_ either, and my brother's life isn't worth more than hers. It is to _me_ , but not to the world at large." He draws a deep breath through his nose. "I hope you see what I'm saying."

I nod again.

"Yeah, maybe."

"Killing a Capitol citizen in retaliation for my brother would perhaps feel good at the time. I don't know. I don't expect it would but it's almost impossible to know how I would feel in such an event. Even if it did feel great it would be a hollow victory and it wouldn't bring my brother back. Sooner or later that rage would return along with the grief. More likely than not I'd just feel _worse_ for what I'd done, no matter how justified it may have seemed at the time." He pauses, then looks straight into my eyes with an intensity that makes me gasp. It feels like my heart is beating stronger, faster, but I'm not entirely sure. "I don't want to become like them, Katniss. I don't believe that's the way to change the world. Anger and rage can consume you, turn you into something uglier than what you were before. Maybe we'll never be free of the Capitol and the Hunger Games. Not in our lifetimes, maybe not ever. I don't think _anyone_ knows. All I know is that I deeply believe that if we were to win our freedom by fighting them on their own level we wouldn't really win at all."

"We would be free," I argue. What else is there? What else really matters as long as we're not?

"Maybe," he replies, not sounding convinced in the slightest. "Or we might end up in another form of enslavement. We might in fact end up trying to even the score and put Capitol children in Hunger Games. Satisfactory for some, I should imagine. For my own part I would just feel hollow and ashamed." He shakes his head. "You probably feel that I'm an idiot and weakling for what I'm about to say – but I'd rather be one of the people who risks going into the arena than one of the people who puts others there. At least the way things are now I can live with myself."

He stops talking and stares at his hands. For a moment I sit there quietly, taking in everything he's said. He's right, in a way I do think he is an idiot. How can anyone prefer being one of the people whose names are in the reaping balls, who fears having children because they might end up becoming tributes? There's also a part of me that, to my own surprise, agrees with him. We all hate the people in the Capitol for their part in the Games. How could we then possibly want to be like them?

I reach out my hand and put it over his. His hand feels warm and surprisingly soft beneath my own. He looks up at me at the touch.

"You're not an idiot," I say. "Or a weakling. I think... I think what you just said is one of the... one of the most excellent descriptions I have ever heard of the way things are."

There's a shift in his eyes at my words, as if he is relieved that I didn't put him down. He turns his hand around so that we're kind of holding hands and he gives mine a light squeeze. It feels surprisingly natural. Surprisingly good.

"You know, I _do_ want things to be different," he says softly, almost vulnerably.

"Yeah," I nod.

"And if it takes fighting, if it takes a _war_ or a _revolution_ to accomplish it then I don't condemn that either. I suspect I'd take part in fighting, just like everyone else. It's just the thought of sinking to that level…" He harks and then draws a deep breath. "What is my freedom worth if I allow them to completely change me in the process? I want freedom as much as the next person, but if I can't stay _me_ …"

"I know Peeta," I say gently, not sure where all this understanding in me is coming from. My hand separates from his just enough so that my fingers can caress his palm; his fingers respond and begin dancing with my own. "I know."

"There must be a way of fighting, of rebelling, and still retaining our humanity and morality." He sighs heavily and looks morose. His fingers pause, then intertwine with mine and squeeze, locking our hands together in a way that not only feels natural but also feels very good and reassuring. I don't know that I consider myself much of a hand holder but right now I find I'm dreading the point where I will have to let go. "Or maybe I'm wrong," Peeta continues. "Maybe that line of thinking is what keeps us under the Capitol's thumb. Maybe bringing the fight to their level is the only way we can ever be free."

"Peeta let's not think about it anymore right now," I say softly.

"Would you think it worth it, though?" he asks, looking deep into my eyes. "Raging a war by their rulebook if it led to a better world?"

I let out a short laugh, my eyes momentarily resting on our intertwined hands. My olive skin in his pale, complementing each other.

"Had you asked me that twenty-four hours ago I would have said yes." I meet his eyes again and I give him a smile that's both meant to be encouraging and appreciative. "I never even considered the things you just said."

He licks his lips.

"And now?"

"Now, I… I think there's a lot to what you are saying. I somehow haven't considered it before, you know? What lengths I would consider it acceptable to go to in order to become free." I let out another brief chortle. "You know, it's funny. Despite the rebellion leading to the Hunger Games and the obliterating of District 13, no one seems to take _consequences_ into account when they talk about rising up again." I haven't actually heard anyone but Gale, and now Peeta, talk about this subject, though I get the strong feeling that those who secretly dream of overthrowing the oppressive government haven't taken into account the things Peeta brings up.

"I guess people don't truly _want_ to think about those aspects," murmurs Peeta. "And it's all academic, anyway." He swallows, smiles softly. "At least for now. Who knows what will happen further down the road? Who knows how long you can push people down before they spring back up and fight to defend themselves. I can only hope that if and when that moment comes, there will be level-headed leaders and figureheads who keep their humanity in mind, and who aspire to make the world _better_ and not just to turn the wheel so that those previously on the top are now at the bottom and vice versa."

"Uh-huh," I nod. My eyes are still locked with his and we've been looking each other in the eye for so many minutes by now that I'm almost transfixed. All the things he's said are starting to take root in me, like seeds planted in the earth and beginning to slowly grow. I've never thought of a rebellion as an actual possibility and therefore never given any thought to how such a thing would be carried out and what implications and consequences there would be. I've listened to Gale's thoughts on the subject for years and now I understand I've come to accept his views as the way it would be. Now Peeta has put an entirely different spin on it, shown it in a whole new light. And I realize somewhere deep within me that I agree with him.

We keep gazing into each other's eyes, the moment holding a grip on us that I can't explain and don't even want to. I can feel the energy between Peeta and me, a sensation unlike anything I've ever felt before. I don't know what it is or what it means, but for once in my life I don't feel frightened by it. It feels like something more ought to happen, only I don't know what it is.

We both startle when the bell sounds out in the hallway, signalling the end of the last class of the day. Our hands fly apart and we both sort of retreat in our own chairs, eyes awkwardly searching for some other place to look.

"Shit, I completely derailed us," says Peeta. His voice sounds so loud now that he speaks in a normal tone of voice again after having that whole conversation in muted tones. "God, I'm sorry Katniss. We squandered quite a lot of time."

"It was my fault," I say calmly, despite the feeling now running through me. All the draw of the previous moment has gone and reality come back in its place, cold and harsh. Whatever that was that just happened it shouldn't have. Not between people like Peeta and me. I know it, and Peeta does too.

"I don't know what happened there," he says, hastily moving back to his original seat. His hands are suddenly very busy gathering everything up in a hurry. "I didn't mean to be… I mean, I don't want our conversation just now to be misconstrued."

"It was just a conversation," I say, though I know without a doubt that something beyond that was going on.

"Sure," Peeta eagerly nods. His things are quickly disappearing into his backpack without his usual neat way of packing everything. "But I mean, all the same…" He pauses and cringes. "You know, I mean, if I had been in Gale's shoes I wouldn't have appreciated seeing my girlfriend in a situation like that. It could easily be misinterpreted, I mean," he hastily adds. Then he snorts and shakes his head, pausing for another moment. "I think I was behaving inappropriately with you, Katniss, and I sincerely apologise. I didn't mean to do so, it just kind of… I don't know, I kind of just slipped into it."

" _We_ slipped into it," I say. For once I understand exactly what he is trying to say. That what started as an innocent conversation and developed into a surprisingly emotional moment, making two people seek some solace and reassurance in one another, would look different to an on-looking eye. And Gale would have every right to feel upset seeing his girlfriend hold hands with another boy and stare into his eyes. Without knowing that we were talking about death and destruction it could easily seem all wrong. Thankfully he doesn't know, and I see no reason to tell him.

"Well, either way, it was…" Peeta frowns, stuffing the last of his things into his bag, leaving only the library books which he will need to check out before he goes. "I guess I can get a little… _intense_ at times."

"There's nothing wrong with that," I say, managing a smile as I begin packing up my own things, much less hurriedly than him. "Either way, what's important isn't how it looks. What's important is that you and I both know that there's nothing between us but being project partners. Possibly being friends." Except there is a whole lot more. The thing we've never once addressed. Him saving my life all those years ago.

Peeta smiles at my words but there doesn't seem to be a single sliver of real happiness behind it. If anything he looks defeated. Then he harks and throws his backpack over his shoulder, gathering his library books in his arms.

"True," he says. "Very true. I mean, obviously, right? You're in love with Gale, and I… Actually I'm seeing someone now."

I'm completely stumped by this revelation. So much so that I don't even think to ask who he's seeing.

"Oh," is all I manage. "Oh, well that's… that's real nice."

"It's still very early. Not sure where it's going to go, if it _is_ going to go somewhere." He shrugs. "But it's nice, you know? Maybe I can… forget about the things I can't control or change and open my eyes to good things elsewhere."

I haven't got the first idea what any of that means. Slowly I pack up my things, feeling so oddly affected by the news that Peeta has a new girlfriend. Or does it not count as that just yet? He said he was _seeing someone_ , which, as Madge pointed out to me, can simply mean testing the waters together. Still, this is surprising news to me, although it really shouldn't be. Much like Gale was ever popular with Seam girls, Peeta is popular with merchant girls, and for good reason. It's not often you come across a boy with such nice qualities _and_ good looks. Of course he's dating someone.

I look at him, no doubt with a stupid dumbfounded look on my face. He's looking back at me with a small, crooked smile, library books pressed under his armpit.

"I need to rush. Wrestling practice."

"Yeah," I nod. "Uh-huh."

"We can both work on our own parts at home until next week, and reassess then to see if we need to put in any extra time together because of today's… digressions." Momentarily his smile seems genuinely warm. "Thank you for today, Katniss. Great work – and thanks for a very interesting conversation. It's not often I get the chance to talk to someone about things like that."

"Bye," I say, and then he's off, heading for the checkout desk where Ms. Dunhill will register the books to him for the following ten days.

Sighing heavily I pack up the last of my things. My head, and my emotions, feels like a jumbled mess after this last hour. I don't regret a single minute of it, even if it was a bit out of line. But when I leave the table all I seem to be able to focus on is the inexplicable feeling in my chest at the thought of Peeta dating someone. Whatever the feeling is, I don't want any of it. I wish I knew how to get rid of it, but I don't. So I'll just have to accept it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! So that was that.
> 
> The person Peeta quotes about an eye for an eye is, of course, Gandhi. The fact that he's dating someone was a last minute addition when I was having trouble wrapping up the chapter. We'll see if it goes somewhere or not. Probably not. He is still very much hung up on Katniss, after all.
> 
> Thanks for reading - please leave a comment and tell me what you thought of the update!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my dear readers! Once again it's been quite a while since my last update, and for that I can only apologise. I am definitely not losing interest in the story, or anything like that, it's just real life that's getting in the way. I have so little time to write these days, which makes it rather difficult at times because I'm writing a paragraph here, half a page there, which makes it difficult to get a cohesive feel for the chapter I'm working on. I shouldn't be bothering you guys with this, but I wanted to explain why I'm taking such a long time to update nowadays, why the chapters might feel a bit messy and most of all I wanted to assure you all that I have absolutely no intention of giving up on this story. I honestly can't believe so many of you are still with me, even though this is probably a contender for the slowest burn ever. If I do manage to keep you all with me through everything I have outlined for this story, I promise you that there will be more than enough Everlark to make up for it. In fact, when going over all the ideas and outlines I've jotted down at this point, the project itself almost seems like a prologue...
> 
> Okay, enough of me rambling. Unfortunately, this is kind of a "breather" chapter, furthering a few things here and there but not that big of an "event" type update. There will be more on that later, but this chapter is a kind of in-betweener that deals with some things I felt needed dealing with. And now that I've made you all super excited for the update ( ;) ), here is the new chapter!

Drawing my feet up underneath me on the couch I let my fingers gently graze over the stack of papers in my hands. My copy of Peeta's essay. The text has a somewhat faded touch to it due to having been run through one of the school's not-too-excellent copy machines but it's unmistakably Peeta's dainty handwriting staring back at me from the pages. I distantly wonder if he's picked up his copy of my essay from his backpack yet – if he's at home reading it this very moment. I'm guessing not. Mine wasn't nearly so long as his and doesn't include anything all that insightful or innovative. He'll be able to craft a response to it in a short amount of time. Plenty of time left over to do other things. To see other people.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, I stop just observing his essay and begin reading it.

"Heavy sighing…" Prim almost sing-songs from her spot on the floor.

"The sound of someone studying…" I reply, mocking her tone.

As I begin to read I let out a short exhale that's almost a laugh, allow myself the hint of a smile, shaking my head slightly. Of course Peeta would write something like this. I'm so impressed with this boy, that he could craft an essay like this – and yet I'm not the least bit surprised. What he's written is at once both mature and insightful and most of all constructive. The biggest fault I find with it is being overly idealistic. Real people in real tough spots probably wouldn't sit calmly down and have a constructive conversation in which each person analyses their own part in the problem. It reads almost like what he thinks our teachers want to hear rather than what he actually feels and believes. But I can't blame him for at least trying. I wonder where he learnt this stuff. Certainly not from his father and the  _witch_.

There's a knock on the door and Prim goes to open, glad for an excuse to take a pause from her homework. My eyes leave the page when I hear Gale's voice. I turn my head and look over my shoulder, soon seeing him walking into the room with a grin on his face. He leans down and kisses me and I would protest that he shouldn't do that in front of my family but Prim doesn't seem to care. She sits right back down on the carpet and pulls Buttercup onto her lap, petting him as she works on her homework on something coal related. The cat begins to purr almost instantly. Gale walks around the couch and takes a seat on the other end of it, giving me a bit of space yet close enough that he could, if he wanted to, reach out and touch my legs.

"So what have you got there, Catnip?" he asks.

"It's, uh… it's an essay. For the project." I look down at the papers, then turn my head when I see Prim getting up from the floor again. "Where are you going?"

"To study in our room," she says casually, grabbing her book. "Give the two of you some privacy."

"You don't have to do that," offers Gale kindly. "Or if we're bothering you, Katniss and I could go sit in the kitchen."

"It's no problem," she smiles slyly, and then she's gone, cat in tow.

"She takes her studies seriously," Gale comments once we're alone, his voice serious but the twinkle in his eye jesting.

"Yeah," I reply. Not so much when it's about coal, or history, but otherwise she does really well at school. I'm on the verge of opening my mouth to add that it's such a frustrating shame that she'll never have the option of continuing her studies to become a doctor, or whatever else she might decide she wants to do. She'll stay out of the mines if I have anything to say about it but once she's graduated her studies will be over. Like the rest of us she'll be forced to conform to the limited options available to us living in an outline district. I have no doubt she'll continue to train with my mother, and probably surpass her at some point, but she will only be scratching the surface of the vast medical world.

What stops me from mentioning this is a reluctance to set Gale off on yet another rant. Peeta's words from the other day ring in my ears and the more I think about them the more sense they make. I do at the same time see Gale's point of view, which makes it exhausting to think about. I don't know how to marry the things I agree with Peeta about to the things I think Gale is right about – if we are to one day win our freedom from the Capitol's rule it's not going to happen without fighting. Peeta didn't propagate against doing so, but like his essay his words were a touch too idealistic. How exactly do you rise up against an oppressive regime without fighting, and how do you fight without it getting ugly? And if we do win our freedom by besting our oppressors at their own game, then are we actually any better than they are?

"So the project is still taking up much of your time?" says Gale. He sounds like he's in a good mood today, a sharp contrast from his aggravation on Sunday.

"Well, not that much time," I mumble. "Just this one essay thing right now, really. The rest can be done at school."

"What's the essay about?"

"It's, uh…" I look down on the pages. I gather them in the right order so I can set them aside. "It's about conflict within a marriage. How you solve things. The husband is out working around the clock to support the family while the wife is stuck at home trying not to go completely insane when the baby won't stop crying."

"I think this whole months-on-end approach is starting to turn all of you a bit loony," chuckles Gale. "You sound like the teachers when you talk about  _the husband_  and  _the wife_  rather than the guy and the girl."

"Well whatever," I shrug. "It's an interesting assignment, for once."

"I'll give you that," he nods. He sits up straighter and leans a bit closer. A spark of interest is in his eyes, which is definitely a first when it comes to this particular school project. "Can I read it?"

"No," I say timidly, surprised that he would ask. He hasn't asked to read any of my school work before. Although I suppose this particular topic would be of relevant interest to a boyfriend.

"No?"

"It's not mine," I explain. "The essay here. It's Peeta's."

" _Peeta's_? What in the world are you doing with  _his_  school work?"

"That's part of the assignment. We're to read each other's and then formulate a response to it."

"Oh." He looks somewhat perplexed but doesn't seem to have a problem with it per se. Not that he has the right to have a problem with it. Weird unfounded jealousy does not have the right to extend to schoolwork which I have no say in. "Well then… What did yours say?"

"Nothing much," I shrug.

"I'm sure that's not true," he says with a crooked smile. He leans back and settles against the armrest, lifting up his feet to put them on the couch but then thinking the better of it. He ends up stretching the outer leg in an angle that his foot ends up outside the couch and bends his other leg at the knee, crossing it over the opposite shin. "Do you have a copy of it?"

"No, Peeta obviously has it. And our teacher."

"I would like to have a look at it once you get it back, if you're not too uncomfortable with it."

"You've never taken that kind of interest in my school work before," I note with a raised eyebrow. I shift so that I can lean over and put Peeta's essay on the table, then spend a few seconds trying to figure out how to stretch my own legs out on the couch with Gale's in their current position. My right foot ends up by his pelvis, my left again tucked under me.

"Well this is different," he says.

"How is it different?"

"Because it's about you and your thoughts on relationships." He takes my foot in his hands and begins to rub it. I smile a little at the sensation. "There are some things I  _don't_  know a lot about when it comes to you, even after all these years as hunting partners and close friends. And come on, what boyfriend wouldn't want that kind of insight into things his girlfriend thinks are important when it comes to solving relationship issues?"

"Aren't you supposed to learn that stuff as you go along?" I ask. I let out a small moan as he rubs my foot and the glint in his eye in response is not lost on me.

"Mmm…" he sort of half-mumbles in a way that makes it sound like a disagreement. He looks down at my foot as he begins to work the base of my toes and my eyes follow his, studying those strong hands that are so sturdy and deft while tying a snare yet right now are so gentle. "It's just…"

"It's just what?" I smile at whatever it is that bugs him about not getting to read my essay – I can't think of any reason that isn't silly, honestly – and move my other foot out from underneath me so that I can poke him with it in a teasing fashion.

"Well, now Peeta Mellark knows more about what my girlfriend thinks is important to maintain a strong relationship than I do."

I freeze, only barely resisting the urge to pull my foot away from his massaging hands. Then I give in to that urge anyways and move further up against the armrest behind me, bending my legs in front of me and wrapping my arms around them.

"Gale, seriously. This is nonsense."

"It's not  _nonsense_ ," he says. To my surprise he looks hurt by that accusation-of-sorts. "It bothers me a little, okay? And I think it's fairly reasonable. Some other guy who seems to carry a torch for you the size of a cornucopia gets all this inside access to your thoughts and feelings about this stuff." My scowl deepens and I open my mouth to start an argument but he keeps talking. "Would you like it if it was the other way around?"

I close my mouth. No, I probably wouldn't like it. Then again, I still don't think he's being fair to me, and I don't mind telling him so.

"Gale this is for school. It's not like I chose to write down all this stuff – and it isn't much that I did write, for the record – and just hand it off to Peeta instead of you."

"He still gets to read it."

"I can't do anything to change that."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"No," I surly and reluctantly agree without much ado. "It doesn't."

"Thank you," he says with surprising softness.

"You're still utterly wrong, though," I say, prompting an oh-come-on look from him. "Peeta doesn't carry anything for me. Not even books, come to think of it."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"I'm trying to tell you that you don't have to feel uncomfortable about it. He's got a girlfriend."

Gale looks surprised, and a touch sceptical.

"Really? Good for him, I guess."

"Good for you, too, by the sound of things," I say dryly, which actually makes him chuckle a little.

"So who is she?"

"I… I don't know," I say, a bit taken aback.

"Then how do you know he's got a girlfriend?" Gale asks, looking confused.

"He  _told_  me."

"What, just in… casual conversation?"

"Yes, Gale Hawthorne. In casual conversation," I say in a tone that implies he's a huge idiot. My tone then softens and my foot reaches out again, the tips of my toes tapping lightly against his leg. "He told me he started dating someone recently and I didn't think to ask who it was."

Gale seems pleased with this, a smile appearing on his face. He reaches for one of the old, worn pillows that once used to be decorative on the couch but whose green corduroy fabric has long since become faded and marred by coal dust. He drums on the pillow lightly with his fingers for a second, then puts it behind his back.

"Okay, I'm sorry if I got a bit…"

"Acting like a jerk?"

"Come on Katniss, that's not fair."

"Neither is you having a hissy fit every time I spend a moment in Peeta's presence and don't utterly despise it," I point out. "I like him, Gale. I am capable of liking people, boys included, without wanting to have a kissing marathon with them."

"Okay," he says with reluctance, nodding his head and looking down. "Fair enough. But this whole thing hasn't been all that easy for me."

"You don't say," I reply dryly, resisting the desire to roll my eyes. "You've made that abundantly clear on an abundance of occasions. What I don't understand is  _why_. We've been trading at the bakery forever, Peeta's been there several times, never once has it been a problem."

"How many of those times did you actually  _speak_  with him?"

"You mean you don't consider me allowed to have conversations with other boys anymore?"

"That's not at all what I'm saying; I'm saying it became a different animal altogether when we began dating yet somehow the guy who's kept in the loop about the things that matter to you in a relationship is the damn  _baker's boy_ , not  _me_!"

"Gale come on, this is a  _school project_!" I say, groaning with exasperation, sitting up straight and then leaning forward. My very limited patience is really running out. "You want to know more about what I think and feel regarding how to make a relationship work? Here's a bit of insight for you: Things are never going to work out between us if you keep getting jealous every time I have a good time in another guy's company, or  _spend_  time in another guy's company. It's not fair, I'm allowed to interact with other boys, and it's hurtful because I'm not the type of girl who would cheat on you or who even runs around falling for boys left, right and centre – much less a person who makes out with people left, right and centre – and you of all people should know that I would never do that to you!" There's a surprising amount of raw emotion in his eyes when they meet mine again and no matter how frustrated I am with him right now it pains me to see that he's really feeling hurt right now. I don't want him to feel that way. I want him to be happy. I want to be able to  _make_  him happy and it hurts me to feel that I am failing at it. It should be so easy after all. He loves me. I love him, too, even if not yet the way he loves me. We're partners. Why is there a problem like this one between us? I soften my tone but make sure there's no mistake in my voice about what I'm trying to convey. "If you keep reacting this way then I don't see how things are going to work out between us. And I want them to work out. I don't want to lose you, Gale."

He closes his eyes hard and leans his head back, exhaling in a long, drawn-out sigh. When he opens his eyes and tilts his head back down to meet my eyes there's a new kind of vulnerability and fragility in his voice.

"I just… I feel…" He laughs a little, shaking his head. "Gosh, I… I hate how this is going to sound, and you're probably going to hate it even more."

Hearing him say this, and especially hearing how he says it, washes away almost all my irritation and just leaves concern and affection. I lean forward and place my hand on his thigh.

"Do you want me to ask Prim to give us the room? She could study out here and we could talk in a more private setting. Or we could go for a walk."

"It's February," he says. As if the two of us are affected by cold weather. "Thanks sweetie, but talking in here is fine."

"Then what is it?" I ask gently. "What's going on with you?" I offer a smile, tilting my head. "You wanted to know all my thoughts on how to make relationships work; how about you share whatever is troubling you about ours?"

He picks dirt and coal dust from underneath his fingernails and keeps his eyes on his hands for almost half a minute of this, obviously either stalling for time or trying to figure out how to say what he wants, or needs, to say. I wonder to myself if it's a good or bad thing that we both tend to have trouble putting words to our thoughts, neither one of us possessing Peeta's gift for speaking freely. Eventually Gale sighs and begins to talk, keeping his eyes on his fingers but sending a glance or two my way.

"Katniss it's not been easy for me that… For six years you and I have been the perfect team. Great friends, natural hunting partners, two very likeminded people." He draws a deep breath. "I'm used to being your only real partner, only true teammate, and now that's not exactly true anymore."

"I don't understand," I say slowly, my brow furrowed, trying my best not to sound in any way demeaning or dismissive. "I've done tons of school projects before. Most of them with Madge, sure, but that's teamwork too."

"Except this isn't some math test you're studying for, or a chemistry lab. This is a project spanning almost the entire length of your final schoolyear. A project that's about how you make a marriage work. Stupid or not, the whole point is to simulate the rest of your life and focusing on doing it with a romantic partner." He looks at me with a crooked, mirthless smile, looking so weary and downtrodden. "And I know you like Mellark. I know you have a good time working with him. You've always had a different look on your face when he's been around at the bakery when we've come to trade with his father."

"Wait, wait, wait!" I say, holding up my hands. "Are you worried that I've got a thing for Peeta?"

"No I don't," he says, and I find myself exhaling with relief. "I cannot imagine you lusting after him while being my girlfriend. You're not the kind of person who would do that to  _anyone_ , let alone to  _me_."

"Good," I say with emphasis, smiling encouragingly at him. I try to ignore what he said about me reacting to Peeta at the bakery. This is neither the time nor the place to go into the bread story. It will hardly make Gale feel better to hear about how a twelve-year-old Peeta took a beating from his mother in order to give me something to eat at a point in time where we hadn't even had a real conversation. "And the project is just a school assignment. You've done it yourself, even if it wasn't as extensive that year."

"Yeah I know," he says. His fingernails appear to be clean since he stops working on them. "It's just been more difficult than I anticipated to know you're a team with somebody else. Someone who gets to play house with you and gets to find out all about how you feel about issues pertaining to that. I know it's immature of me to be jealous of that, but-"

"No Gale," I interrupt, moving over so I am sitting much closer to him. He puts his legs down as I move, allowing me nearer. My hand finds the back of his neck and I try to fixate his eyes with my own, hoping that can take away some of his discomfort. I really, truly don't want him to feel upset about this, about  _anything_  really that isn't life-or-death. I care about him so much and I wish I was better at expressing it. "Gale I understand. Believe me, I do. When I saw you with other girls I used to worry that I would lose my hunting partner, the best one east of the Capitol!"

At last I get a smile from him again that seems genuine.

"Was that all you were jealous of when you saw me with other girls?"

I don't know what to say to that so I give him a kiss. He responds instantly and his tongue presses against the seam of my mouth. Just then I hear the front door open and I pull back, scooting about a foot back on the couch, smiling wryly as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. We both shift so that we're sitting more properly on the couch, close to one another but keeping a little bit of space between us nonetheless. I lean over and grab Peeta's essay, using the papers as something to occupy my hands with. The smile is still on my lips and I know Gale is smiling too.

My mother comes walking in, unwrapping the long scarf that's around her neck. She's not wearing any other outerwear. She likes to sometimes keep her scarf on for a bit, or hanging loosely over her shoulders. She says it brings warmth, and who am I to argue?

"Good evening, you two," she says gently. One of her hands lands softly on my shoulder and she leans down to place a kiss on the crown of my head. Gale gets a soft pat on the shoulder. "Where is Prim?"

"Studying in the bedroom," I say.

Gale returns my mother's greeting, turning his upper body around and resting his arms on the back of the couch

"You've been out late this evening," he notes. "Who is sick?"

To be honest it looks like my mother is the sick one. She looks pale, bags under her eyes, and shoulders slumping. Her usually carefully styled hair has escaped its braided bun on several places and looks quite the mess. She slumps down on a chair and leans her head back, stretching her legs out as far as they can go, her fingers massage the bridge of her nose.

"Nobody," she answers Gale with exhaustion. "Not anymore. The Newsome baby has gone to a better place."

"Already?" I say meekly with a disturbed frown. I don't know the Newsome family more than by sight, really, but I remember Mother and Prim going over to check on the newly delivered mother and her brand-new baby just a few weeks ago.

"The poor little thing developed a stomach infection," Mother explains. She reaches behind her and begins to undo her hairdo, groaning slightly. "Never stood a chance. Only Capitol medicine could have made any difference."

Gale and I share a look, neither one of us smiling anymore. I feel an uncomfortable knot tighten in my stomach and I get up from the couch to try and do something to take my mind off that feeling.

"You look exhausted," I tell my mother. "I'll make you some tea."

"Thank you, darling," she sighs in response, closing her eyes and letting her arms drop to her sides.

"Great idea, Katniss," says Gale, rising as well. "I'll help you."

Together we leave for the kitchen, putting our previous conversation behind us as we help each other make tea and something for Mother to eat. We keep talking to each other, keeping our voices low so that we don't disturb her, and we don't say anything of particular importance. Soon my mind moves away from the things we were talking about before my mother came home, and it begins to feel like any other regular evening.

Yet an hour later, as I join Gale on his walk back home – ostensibly so that I can get some fresh air but truthfully because my mother began telling Prim the details of the Newsome baby's death and I didn't want to have to hear about it – I can't help but let my mind wander back to the thing Gale revealed to me earlier this evening. That he is having trouble accepting the idea of me being in a partnership with somebody else, much the same way I know I would be bothered if he had drifted away from me, from our hunting partnership, towards another girl.

Walking side by side with him in the cold winter's evening, our cheeks and noses red and our breaths coming in puffs of smoke, I can't help but wonder. Is part of Gale's motivation for wanting us to be together romantically actually about not wanting to lose our partnership in the woods? I mean, I believe him when he tells me he's in love with me, but did the initial thought of us being together as a couple stem from not wanting to lose me as a hunting partner?

Glancing up at Gale from the corner of my eye, and pretending to be listening to the story he's telling about something that happened in the mines this morning, I try to figure out if it would be a good thing or a bad thing if his romantic feelings for me grew from such a concern. On the one hand it seems like a bad thing – in effect creating this circumstance in which I fear I will lose him if I don't let our relationship evolve further down the romantic path. Despite our relationship's progression we still have a possible make-it-or-break-it point in our future if he can't wise up to the fact that I mean it when I say I never intend to marry him. Which could have been avoided entirely if  _in_ love never became a factor between us in the first place. On the other hand it seems like a good thing – a sign of hope that if that line of thinking could make Gale begin to eventually fall in love with me, then I will probably end up reciprocating his feelings completely somewhere down the line, since the fear of losing him is one of the reasons why I ventured into this relationship.

Walking beside him right now, holding his hand in mine, I wish that I dared ask him if the fear of losing my partnership in the woods played any part in this whole thing. I just can't bring myself to do so, not tonight. He's smiling again. I don't like it when I see him in pain, like I did earlier this evening. I don't like it as a friend and I don't like it as a girlfriend – in fact I believe that it is my job as his girlfriend to keep him from having to feel unhappy to whatever extent I can.

So I leave the question unasked.

* * *

Monday arrives. When Peeta and I converge after the second-to-last class of the day I lower my voice so that it's just about audible over the cacophony of noise our classmates produce on their way to their ten-minute recess. I lean in closer so that he will have a better chance hearing me, brushing against him in the process. It feels like he freezes up a bit when we touch, but that could be simply him bracing himself against the number of people trying to elbow their way past us.

"Library?" I say.

He nods. He has to stop by his locker first, and I lean against a nearby locker while I wait. I don't know whose locker it is but he or she is obviously enjoying recess before getting any necessities for the project hour. I bite my bottom lip and can't help but letting my eyes drift to our teacher, visible through the open classroom door at this angle. Merchant kids always seem to get the best lockers, the ones closest to homeroom. Us Seam brats have to settle for ones that are further down the hall, or even a corridor or two away. From where I'm standing now I can see Mr. Stoker collecting all the essay rebuttals he's received from us today. It makes me nervous. He will read them all and them he will select which pairs will have to do an oral exam as well. Thankfully said exams will take place with just the teacher and your partner, not the entire class, but all the same the prospect is terrifying. Peeta would no doubt breeze through it, but I wouldn't be able to rely on him since I would be forced to do my own fair share of speaking.

My attention is brought elsewhere when one of the town girls the class below ours walks by, hips swaying, her long blonde hair doing the same, and she raises one hand to give a little wave. Her smile is sweet in a way I'm sure mine has never been.

"Hi Peeta!" she chirps coquettishly.

He looks up from his locker, meeting her eyes.

"Oh, hi Aster."

The moment is over in a heartbeat, Aster continuing to her own locker and Peeta finishing up with his. He closes the door and locks it, adjusting his backpack. I'm frustratingly curious – is she his new sweetheart? She certainly seemed flirty in her behaviour, although Peeta didn't seem that way in return. I don't expect him to be– he's never been among those kids in class who flaunt their love affairs openly in the corridors.

"Katniss?"

"What?" I say stupidly, so wrapped up in my own mind that I barely heard Peeta say my name. He hasn't had to say it twice, has he?

"I'm done. All ready."

"Yeah, uh, that's, yeah, that's good."

"So," he says, smiling lightly and shrugging a shoulder. "Library?"

"Yes please," I say, hoping that I'm sounding relatively normal. "Let's move."

As we begin to walk I prepare myself for his usual questions about my weekend, how my sister is doing, how I feel about this or that test we have coming up, in my mind going over the answers I have thought to say to his most common questions. I hate stammering and stuttering when he's only asking me questions that should require little to no difficulty answering, so I've begun to make a habit out of giving some thought to what the answers to his questions will be. Prim is doing great, my mother is feeling tired these days but doing alright – as good as can be expected, anyway, when the time of year that holds the anniversary of my father's death approaches. My weekend was fine, nothing out of the ordinary.

Only the questions don't come. I give him a surprised look as we stop for a moment, caught in a bit of a bottleneck where several students in the grade under ours are trying to exit through the same narrow corridor all at once. He looks the same as usual, doesn't he? No warm smile on his lips, but no scowl either, just a neutral facial expression. He cranes his neck, trying to see over the crowd of people to determine how soon we can move. Then he catches me looking at him. The corners of his mouth move upward quickly, and just as quickly they go back down again, an incredibly brief smile. Is he waiting for the crowd to thin a bit so that we can hear each other better? Has he concerned himself with details like that before? My brow furrows. Why isn't he asking me his usual round of questions?

"So, uhm…" I begin, deciding to take matters into my own hands. I realize I have to raise my voice to make myself heard over the ruckus. "How is your family? Everyone doing okay?"

Good grief what an idiotic thing to say. I've never asked much about his family in the past. He must think it's weird that I suddenly appear to take an interest. Or perhaps, I realize, he thinks I'm rude since I've never asked much before when he courteously inquires about my family's well-being every week. I open my mouth to try and say something more, I'm not entirely sure what, when somebody elbows me in the back in their attempt to push through the crowd. I lose my balance and fall forward against another person in the crowd. Peeta's strong arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back so that I can stand soundly on both feet again. Then his arm disappears, as quickly as it appeared. This too surprises me. I half expected him to keep his arm there while we're in this thick crowd that bellows a bit as people move forward or, as Peeta and I mean to do, cross it to get to the corridor on the other side.

"My family is well, thank you for asking," Peeta says once I'm standing steadily and his arm has left my waist. "Biggest brother seems to be contemplating marriage, which is great for him, of course, but a bit sad for me to see him leave the house." I open my mouth, and close it again, spending several seconds trying to figure out how to respond to such a revelation. Peeta doesn't elaborate either. He cranes his neck again, then grabs me by the hand and begins to navigate through the crowd, turning left and right here and there as if he's charted out a map in his head for how to best get through the mass of people. "There's some fool blocking the entrance," he leans in to tell me. "Or rather, two fools. Two people playing tug-o-war over a football. Why they have to do it at  _that_  particular spot, I'll never know." The moment we get through the thickest crowd he lets go of my hand, running it instead through his curly hair, leaving it in a bit of a mess that looks a little bit funny but actually rather becoming. Then he turns to me and smiles faintly. "And what about your family? How is Prim doing? Still struggling with her history class?"

"Still hates it," I confirm. I almost can't remember the things I had thought out to say in answer to the questions he always asks me. He only asks me one more though, inquiring as to how my mother is doing. His third usual question, about how my weekend has been, never comes. Nor does he do what he does most weeks and ask a series of new questions. It confuses me. A few weeks ago, I found his questions a bit strange and oddly personal from someone who isn't a close friend. But now I've come to expect them, and their absence is noticeable.

We make our way through the packed hallway to the far less crowded part of the building where the library is located. None of our classmates have made it here yet but a handful of younger students are here studying after hours, perhaps preferring the calm and quiet here to the clutter and the multitude of conversations going on in the assembly room. As we step inside I stretch my neck and stand up on my tiptoes to see if our table from last week is free. It isn't and I scowl, realizing what a creature of habit I've apparently become.

"We'll have to sit somewhere else," I tell Peeta in soft tones. "The table from last week is occupied. Crap."

"We could go over and demand it," says Peeta, sounding unsure. Since we're seniors and we're the only ones whose school day isn't over yet we are allowed to order whoever's sitting there now to move. Those who are officially still on the clock always have first rights to a table, a book, etc.

"No," I tell him. "It's fine. There's a table over there by the wall. It looks good – even has a sofa to sit on."

"Dibs on the sofa."

"Hey!" I protest, a little too loudly. I get shushed at from Ms Dunhill who is right by us at the desk. My cheeks flush and I turn my eyes toward the floor. "Sorry, Ms Dunhill."

"Come along, let's get to work," Peeta says, heading for the table I spotted. I half expect him to chivalrously pull out one of the two chairs and sit down there, leaving the sofa for me, but he doesn't. He plops down on the sofa and wiggles out of his backpack, setting it down beside him and getting to work unpacking what he needs. I tell myself it's fine. The sofa doesn't look overly comfortable anyway, its fabric bleached from many years of usage and the filling in the cushions sticks out here and there from tears in the cloth. However, I can't fully quench the thought that a month or two ago he would have let me have the sofa – apparently merchant chivalry only stretches so far, fading little by little once you get to know each other.

"I saw Mr. Stoker collecting the rebuttals," I say as I sit down. Peeta hums in response, a notebook between his teeth while he rummages through the backpack using both hands. "How many do you figure will have to do the oral exam?"

"Depends," he says through the notebook.

"Yeah but on what?"

He finds the things he was looking for and set them down, some on the table and some next to himself on the couch. The notebook gets placed on the table and he opens it up and finds the right page while he answers my question.

"On how many people turn in substandard work." He leans in and moves some of his things out of the way so that I have more room for my books. "That's why they have the oral parts – I'll bet you anything on that. So that people who slack off or who aren't able to do a good job can get an approved leg of the project."

"Oh." That hadn't even occurred to me. "So you don't think we'll have to do it, then?"

He gives me a funny look.

"Was my work really that bad?"

I'm not even sure if he's joking or not. Stuttering I try to find the right words but he moves on to another topic, letting me off the hook, thankfully. He opens one of the books he picked out last week, turns to a page somewhere in the last third and holds it out for me to read.

"What do you think about this?" he asks.

"What… am I looking at?" I ask, feeling again like an utter idiot. The page isn't even about mental development. Instead it's got some form of grid underlying different types of food and their nutritional value. "Why are we interested in whether carrots are a rich source of Vitamin A?"

"We're not," he says. "Screw carrots and their Vitamin A, or lack thereof." The tone in his voice suggests he's trying to make me laugh and I chuckle slightly, despite what he said not being particularly funny. "No, it's the flow grid I'm interested in. I think it could be really good for merging together everything we find out. Like this." He opens his larger notebook at the back and takes out a paper, moving the notebook out of the way when he's done. With his ruler he then carefully makes a series of grids, and I roll my eyes when he takes the time to make some of the lines thicker and darker than the others. When he's done he writes various ages into the vertical boxes on the left. He then writes headers on the top row, pausing a few times to wrinkle his brow, drum the end of his pencil against his lip and give some thought to it before deciding what to write next. He ends up with things like "vocal development", "spatial perception" and "awareness of self".

"So, here's what I'm thinking," he says, showing his mock-up to me. "Obviously this is just a rough draft, but you get the idea, right? We gather all our information, decide what categories we want to use, make a grid like this and then present it to our teachers."

"Peeta wouldn't that be an awful lot of work? How are we going to find the time to do that while we're writing the essays about it?"

"No, this would be  _instead of_  an essay."

"What?" My eyes go between him and the mock-up a few times in quick succession. "Can… we do that? Won't they fail us?"

"Nowhere do the instructions say that we have to write essays about it," he points out. "Just that we have to show our findings to the teacher group."

I take a good few minutes to really look at the grid he's drawn up, and think closely about his suggestion. I like the idea of not writing another essay but I don't share his confidence that his proposal will be accepted instead. What if they don't consider it enough? I don't have the time to write up a whole new essay from scratch at that point; there will be a ton of other school work by then as well. It's our very last semester and it seems like every teacher is eager to give us as much work as they can in the short timespan they have left to do it in.

"Uhm…" I mutter, scepticism clear in my voice. "Uh…"

"If they don't accept this idea then  _I_  will write the essay, or whatever it is they'll stick us with. I promise you." He looks a bit uncomfortable, fidgeting in his seat, seemingly frustrated that I'm not immediately signing off on his suggestion. "I believe in this grid idea. I really do. I think it makes things much clearer, much easier to follow. It's not just a bunch of text, but something that is visually interesting. And it will have all the relevant information right there, plain to see, not muddled in a bunch of essay nonsense." When I still don't give him the answer he wants right away his brow furrows a bit and he looks dejected. "Like I said, if they flunk us over it,  _I_  will do whatever it is they want us to do to get the grade."

"Don't be an idiot," I say, keeping my eyes on the piece of paper rather than on him. It makes me uncomfortable to see him look disappointed, though I can tell he's trying to hide it. When I glance up at him he's got a smile on his face, though his eyes tell a different story. "If they give us some sort of extra assignment then we'll do it together."

"No," he insists, shaking his head. "It will have been my suggestion that landed us there, so my responsibility." He swallows. "Though I don't think they will disapprove… or I wouldn't be suggesting it in the first place."

"Doesn't matter if it's your suggestion or not," I argue. "I said yes to it, I will have done as much work on it as you, therefore any extra work we might end up with will be on both of us to do." I realize I just said I have agreed to go with his idea, even though I haven't really made up my mind yet. I look up at him, expecting a genuine smile on his face, but he doesn't look any less serious than he did a moment ago. In fact, the smile he did have is gone, replaced by him worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"You're sweet, Katniss," he says, his brow still furrowed. "But you don't have to say yes to it if you don't feel comfortable with it." He lets out a short laugh and one corner of his mouth turns upward. "Much like in an actual marriage, we have to compromise. You need to feel good about it, or neither one of us will feel alright with it." His brow furrows even more, then he grabs the piece of paper with the grid mock-up and unceremoniously balls it up. "Never mind. We have a week to decide how we want it done. Let's forget about it for now and just go back to work. Just… You know… It would make me happy if you just agree to think about it. Then if you decide against it, you at least didn't dismiss it without consideration."

"Peeta I would never just dismiss something you suggest without giving it proper consideration."

"No, I know…" he says, eyes fixated on some spot to his left, a faint smile on his lips. Then he looks at me, briefly. "Thanks, Katniss."

"Yeah okay…" I say hesitantly, eyeing him as he tosses the balled-up piece of paper in his backpack and opens his notebook again. Within seconds the back of his pencil is drumming at his bottom lip as his eyes move between the notebook and the page of one of the open books in front of him.

"I wonder how they know all this stuff about little babies," he comments, his tone suggesting it's a rhetorical statement. "Like, how do they know at what age you start dreaming? Or that kids at a certain age believe they and their mother are the same being?"

I turn my eyes to my own books and my own work so far, electing not to respond. He doesn't say anything else and we work silently for a while, but for the first time the silence between us doesn't feel entirely comfortable. I wonder initially if it's awkwardness stemming from me not agreeing to his grid pitch, but that can't be the whole story. There was something awkward in the air between us even before then, and Peeta never struck me as that kind of person. Still, I want to clear the air to whatever extent that I can, and so I reach out and tap the back of his hand lightly with my fingertips.

"You know… We should give the grid thing a try." He looks unsure when his eyes meet mine. I give him a small smile. "It's creative. Mr. Stoker says they like it when we're creative. And as long as we get all the important information in there, then what could they object to?"

He gives me a faint smile and shrugs his shoulder.

"No, Katniss, it's fine. It was just an idea… I don't want to make you go along with it if you don't think it's good. Give it some real thought and we'll make a decision next week. Don't worry about it."

"It  _is_  good," I insist. "I mean it. It's a little weird, I'll admit, but… That's kind of become our trade mark, hasn't it? We do things our own way."

"That we do," he agrees, chuckling slightly.

"We should give it a shot. If they like it then it's probably going to be a big help for our grade."

He sets his pencil down and shifts in his seat, leaning forward a bit.

"Are you sure? It's fine if you don't want to do it. You can tell me no, you know."

My smile becomes more genuine.

"I know, Peeta. And I think we should give it a try. It's something different, at least."

He smiles, but it seems uncertain and doesn't reach his eyes this time either. He nods though, slowly.

"Yeah okay. Thanks, Katniss."

He goes back to work, and so do I. I suppose the atmosphere between us is a little bit better now, but truth be told it still feels off. Peeta has spread his things out on the couch, on both sides of him, and he's got his books lined up on the table in front of him, almost like a barrier between us. He's being cordial with me, but not his usual warm, friendly and inviting self. It's miles away from the way things were a week ago, when he came and sat so close to me, touched my hand with his own, held on to my gaze for what felt like forever. I much preferred that to whatever is going on between us right now.

I recall what he said at the end of our class last week. That if somebody saw us they might get the wrong idea, that our intense discussion in hushed voices easily could give people the wrong impression. Maybe somebody did see us, and told his new girlfriend. Or maybe he's just worried that she might hear something and get needlessly jealous. Is that it? Is that why he's acting different this week? It seems far-fetched that he would be so concerned over  _my_  relationship that he lets it affect the mood between us this way. Truthfully, I do worry what Gale would say, and think, and feel, if he heard about the intense conversation we had last week. It  _would_  be easy for him to get the entirely wrong impression – especially since he already is prone to jealousy where Peeta is concerned. He wouldn't be pleased to know I held Peeta's hand and stared into his eyes, and he might not even care about the context. Is Peeta's odd mood today based on worry over having over-stepped his boundaries in the heat of the moment? I feel it would be in Peeta's nature to react that way, but it is for me to decide if any boundaries have been over-stepped, and unless I tell him that he's doing something wrong then he shouldn't feel that he has. Which leaves only the new girl he's dating.

I can't seem to concentrate on my work, my mind preoccupied with thoughts about this. I at least want to know who the girl is, so that I can keep in mind not to be too… friendly… with him when she's nearby. Innocent gestures such as brushing a strand of hair away or giving someone's hand a squeeze could easily be misinterpreted and the last thing I want to do is cause any problems for Peeta. I make up my mind to just plain ask him, get it out in the open. We can talk about the Gale side of things some other time, perhaps if we're working together outside of school. Only, even though I've made up my mind about it, it still feels daunting to ask. It shouldn't, it's not  _that_  personal a question, but a knot still forms in my belly.

"So, uhm…" My eyes stay glued to the textbook open in front of me. I feel much too embarrassed to be asking him about this, but if I don't ask my mind will just be preoccupied with it and I'll be far too unproductive. I remind myself that it is  _not_  an odd thing to ask. It's practically making small talk. "So, this new girl you're seeing… Uhm…" God, I feel so awkward asking about this; my face must be burning brightly red right about now. But I have to know. If nothing else, for the sake of our ability to work together efficiently. I can't risk my grade. Our love loves can't start needlessly complicating things, not this late in the game. We've come so far, just a few short weeks left. I hark, then immediately regret it as it might give the wrong impression. Oh geez, this hesitation is only making matters worse. He's looking at me, probably very puzzled. Better to just get it all out. "So, is it serious?"

I gather enough courage to glance up at him and find him eyeing me with a deep frown, pencil frozen somewhere in-between his face and his notebook.

"No, no it isn't. Not yet, anyway," he answers in a wary tone. "What… What makes you ask?"

God, I hope I'm not blushing as badly as I fear I might be. Why is he asking me that? Isn't it a normal thing for one friend to ask another? Isn't it? What do I say to that?

"Just curious," I manage. Then I thankfully figure out how to elaborate, and hurry to do so. "You know about my love life – better than almost everyone in our class, even. I'm curious about yours."

"Oh. Okay." He shrugs. His eyes turn back to his book. "It's very early, so, you know, hard to tell if it's going to become serious or not." He looks up at me, one eyebrow slightly raised. "Though I guess you and Gale were completely serious from the get-go, huh?"

I suppose we were, though we also were not. It depends what you mean by serious, I suppose. But I'm not interested in talking about me and Gale right now.

"Sure," I say evasively. "And this girl of yours… anyone I know?" I ask, hoping that I sound as chipper, casual and care-free as I attempt to.

"Uhm…" He chuckles briefly, not in a condescending way but in a surprised way, and he puts his pencil down beside the notebook. He turns the page of his textbook and lets out another brief chuckle. "I mean, I didn't know you cared at all…"

A flash of anger runs through me and I want to tell him that I don't  _care_ , per se, but I don't want my final grades in my final year of school to be less than they ought to be because he went and started dating some random girl and allowed our schoolwork to suffer. It's not fair to me if he puts distance between the two of us to accommodate some girl he doesn't even like enough to call his girlfriend, while I haven't let my quite serious relationship with Gale affect our work on the project. I, in fact, stand up to Gale whenever the project work leads to an issue between us.

Then a thought occurs to me. It's only my assumption that Peeta is lukewarm about this girl when in fact it might be she who wants to take it slow. Maybe he's acting more distant today because he doesn't want to risk scaring her off. I forget about my embarrassment and look at him, capturing his blue eyes with my own, intensely looking for clues of any kind. Is it possible that he finally started dating that girl he spoke about before? The girl he fell in love with, who, as far as he knows, doesn't return his affections?

If he's finally gotten to go out with her I can't very well be frustrated with him, or begrudge him the opportunity to try his luck with her. He seemed so genuinely besotted when he spoke of her a few weeks back, and so disheartened when he talked about how she didn't feel the same way back. I feel a strange lump forming in my throat, and a burning, uncomfortable sensation in my chest. It's no wonder that I feel dismayed. This grade is important to me and we've been working so well together all this time, but I can't ask Peeta to jeopardize the chance of being with that girl. It's my grade in one class – a big one, sure, but just the one – against what might be his whole future happiness.

"I was just wondering…" I say, my voice steadier now but not by much. "Is it…  _the_  girl?" His brow is still furrowed but now it looks more confused. I lower my voice to a whisper. "You know… The girl you told me about a few weeks back?"

Realization hits him but he still looks a bit uncertain. I wonder if he remembers even telling me about this, and if perhaps he would have rather not said anything. It was quite the thing to confide in someone.

"Look, Katniss, if you don't mind…" he says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while grimacing. "You're sweet to ask, to  _care.._. I don't mean to be rude or anything, it's just… Well, I'd rather not talk about my personal life right now."

"Yeah," I say. "Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"No, I know."

How does he know? I  _was_  prying. Truth be told I'd like to pry even further, find out more about him and this girl. My mouth feels oddly dry and I shift in my seat, feeling strangely restless. I want to know if this is that special girl of his, and if not, if he cares enough about her to let her affect our work. But I can't very well ask him that. It irritates me a little that the status of Peeta Mellark's love life should concern me so much, but I remind myself that it is all about the project and my need of a good grade. And whoever this person is, and whatever his feelings for her, the fact that he's seeing her has already had a negative impact. I only just learned about it a week ago and already things are odd between us.

I turn my eyes back to my own work, but I still can't seem to focus. I read a page, two pages, three, then I have to go back a page and re-read the whole thing because I realized I missed something. I make a few notes, scowl even deeper, turn another page. I hear Peeta sigh heavily. I look up at him. He's writing something down on his notebook, looking about as happy as I feel. His brow is furrowed, his blue eyes look troubled, his teeth worrying the right side of his bottom lip. He sighs again, deepens his scowl and erases something. What the hell is going on with us? We've never had an awkward silence between us in the past, not like this. And I can't bear it a moment longer.

"Hey Peeta?"

He looks up at me, his bottom lip slowly sliding out from between his teeth.

"Yeah, Katniss?"

I hesitate for a moment. My heart seems to beat strangely hard in my chest.

"We're okay, though, right?" I finally say, my voice sounding oddly hoarse. "You and me?"

It's a strangely worded thing to say – like a suggestion that something else we just talked about  _isn't_  alright. But if Peeta notices he doesn't show it. Somehow it seems like he understands my question, oddly worded as it was. He smiles a little, though it doesn't reach his eyes this time either. But his hand reaches out and lands on top of mine, giving it a squeeze. The gesture feels very comforting.

"Of course we are."

I nod.

"Good."

Our eyes stay locked together for about a minute, or perhaps longer. Perhaps shorter. All I really know is that a smile forms on my lips while we're looking into each other's eyes, and just like that, Peeta's smile reaches his eyes as well. I chuckle briefly and my foot taps playfully against his under the table. He rolls his eyes but his smile is much warmer now, just like the skin where his hand is touching mine. It stays warm for several minutes after he's pulled his hand back.

And for the rest of the hour, the silence between us feels much more at ease. Much more like it's supposed to feel. We don't say much to one another, we only share a few glances, but the smiles we exchange are genuine. When Peeta thanks me for today, right before he leaves for wrestling practice, he leans in and presses his cheek to mine in a form of hug. His beard feels a bit scratchy but his cheek is warm, and the feel of it remains on my skin for a long while afterward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, uhm, what do I want to say before letting you all go... There will be less awkwardness between Peeta and Katniss next time around, I promise. Katniss may be wondering if Peeta's more reclusive behavior is an attempt to accomodate a new love interest, but she was much closer to the truth when she wondered if he might be worried about having over-stepped his boundaries the week before. If I had the time I would love to write something from Peeta's POV but I'll probably focus on the main story under the cirumstance.
> 
> And as always - thank you so much for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts, comments, ideas, criticisms... They all mean so much to me, even if I'm getting worse and worse at responding. So please share your thoughts with me and thank you for staying with me through more than twenty chapters of this story. I am really looking forward, myself, to when Everlark starts to kick in for real and I hope you will all be with me then.


	22. Chapter 22

February gives way to March. The final month of the project, for all intents and purposes. We will be handing in the last material in the early days of April, and receive our final grades a few weeks later, but the bulk of the last work will be done this month. It feels strange, almost surreal. Five more weeks and then it's done. This project that has felt never-ending, these endless budgets and essays and idiotic events of our fictional lives… and these weeks and months working together with Peeta. I don't even bother lying to myself, I feel sad that our teamwork is nearing its end. It's become part of my routine, meeting up with him every Monday afternoon to work together. And we work so  _well_  together. I haven't worked this well with anyone since Gale and I grew into a well-oiled machinery out in the woods, and even that took several months. I'll never tell Gale this, but Peeta and I figured out how to best complete each other as a team far faster and easier than Gale and I did. Of course, we're both older than Gale and I were and we're only doing a school project together, not fighting for survival out in the forbidden woods, so matters aren't as tense. It's an entirely different kind of teamwork and partnership, though Gale would not be the least bit comforted by that thought. It's a partnership based on pretending to be married. That's what we're excelling at, Peeta and I.

The first Monday of April sees Madge and I sitting together in the back of the classroom during the last class before project hour, neither one of us paying much attention to Mr. Stoker as he drones on and on and on. Not until the last minutes of the lesson, when he brings up the project. That spikes our attention and we share a look, Madge and I. She looks just as nervous as I feel, perhaps even more so. I turn my head and search for Peeta's familiar blond curls, knowing I will find them in the middle of the room today. I realize I'm not surprised to find he's turned his head and is meeting my eyes with his own. He looks calm, smiling reassuringly at me. I smile back nervously and nod, and he returns the gesture before turning back to face the teacher.

"I know you all are working on your pair assignments and that they aren't due until next week," says Mr. Stoker, walking around his desk and leaning back against it. He sticks his thumbs in the belt that keeps his faded black pants up and lets his eyes trail over the room, seeming to look at every single one of us, one by one. "As you all know, the project wraps up in about a month. And as you also all know, in just about three months you will leave the walls of this school behind for good." One or two merchant kids make cheering noises at that statement, but most Seam kids lower their gazes, seeing no relief in school ending. What awaits us is mostly the hard work of the mines or, for the girls, the possibility of marrying for real and starting to birth babies, who will then be at risk of starving to death, or dying of some other malady that affects young kids in an impoverished society – if childbirth itself does not kill you. "Well, that is still three months away," continues Mr. Stoker, sounding a touch sterner than normal. "For some of you, a bit of a summer break will be waiting once the bell rings for the last time, but  _this_ … is no time to slouch." He reaches behind him and grabs an envelope at random. "You have all been given additional assignments to your projects, to be completed within a week." My jaw drops a little and I share a look of disbelief with Madge, who nervously bites her bottom lip.  _More_  project work to do this week? How are we supposed to find time for that? We only have the one hour this week, and in those sixty minutes most, if not all, of us have essays to write.

"We can't handle another assignment in just one week," whispers Madge, her eyes wide and worried. "We still have lots left to do on the assignment we already have." Under most circumstances she wouldn't talk at all, not even in whispers, while a teacher was doling out information by his desk, but at the moment there are a lot of worried and upset murmurs heard around the classroom. "Can you and Peeta manage it?"

I look at him again, this time seeing nothing but the back of his head as he appears to be one of the few not reacting by commenting to the persons sitting next to him.

"No," I state simply. Perhaps we can, if our assignment is simple enough and his grid idea goes much faster than writing a whole essay, but I wouldn't count on it.

"Alright, alright, be quiet," demands Mr. Stoker. He moves his arms, crossing them instead, envelope still in his hand. "Some of you will find instructions for your verbal exam, including the day and the time. The locale will be right here in this room." My mouth feels completely dry and my heart beats faster, beads of sweat even forming on my brow. I share another look with Madge, though she actually seems calm hearing this. I can't fully tell, though she is looking sternly at the teacher with no trace of the previous worry that was written all over her face. Once more I look towards Peeta, who again has turned his head to give me a reassuring look. "For the rest of you, your additional workload will be detailed in the usual manner." Mr. Stoker actually smiles as he says it, failing miserably at reading the atmosphere in the room. "I'll let you all run off a couple of minutes early; perhaps you can all use a few more minutes of recess to gear up for your additional work this afternoon. I want just one person from each pair to come up and get the envelopes, or it will be too big of a crowd up here. Whichever one in your pair whose name comes first in the alphabet, come up and get your project envelope. And I will see you all tomorrow."

Feeling more than a little bit nervous I pack up my things rather slowly, hoping to avoid the initial onslaught of classmates eager to get their envelopes so they can run off to recess. I never thought I'd see the day, but I'm praying for an additional essay, budget revision, new tragedy to befall our fictional family,  _anything_  but an oral exam.

"Harry's already at the desk," notes Madge as she packs her backpack. "You're not eager to get yours? And find out?"

"I won't be opening it here in the classroom, anyway," I reply, glad to note that my voice isn't trembling even though the rest of my body seems to be. I stuff the last of my things in my backpack and close it, turning around to put it on. "Peeta and I will open it once we sit down to work, I suppose." I swallow hard and look at my friend. "Madge, aren't you worried?"

"Yeah," she says after a moment's pause. "A little. But if we've been selected, we've been selected. Not much point in worrying about it before I know if I  _need_  to worry about it."

"I can't think like that." I draw a deep breath, hoping it will calm me. "Peeta thinks it depends on the quality of the work you handed in. That those who did poorly with the essays and rebuttals will be the ones chosen."

"Sounds reasonable," nods Madge. "What do  _you_  think?"

"I think they might do things more randomly than that," I say dryly. Truthfully I've been worrying all week that perhaps that creativity that Mr. Stoker spoke so highly of with regards to Peeta and myself might be something that causes them to select us, just to see what we would say if put on the spot. When I talked to Prim about it she carefully suggested that maybe I was giving us a bit too much credit and that the teachers don't think about things like that, and while I think she might be right, and that Peeta's theory is quite logical, I never underestimate my own bad fortune.

Together with Madge I leave our table and walk towards the front of the classroom. She gives my arm a gentle squeeze before leaving my side and walking up to Harry's. I watch them go, biting my lower lip and focusing on breathing deeply and steadily, a trick I use out in the woods to keep calm no matter what the situation. I get in line to get my envelope, three kids in front of me and a few more coming in behind. When Mr. Stoker hands me the envelope I try to read his face to figure out what might be inside it, but he doesn't give me so much as a glance. I hurry out of the classroom and find Peeta waiting right outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his backpack at his feet. He's talking with a group of his merchant friends but when he spots me he turns away from the conversation and begins speaking to me instead.

"Where do you want to sit today?" he asks. "Library? Assembly room?"

"I don't care," I snarl. "Whichever one is closest."

"That would be the assembly room," he says in the tone one usually reserves for morons. It's more than three times as far to the library and that's not exactly news to me. He pushes away from the wall and picks up his backpack, which by the looks of things is jam-packed with books and must weigh a ton. Not that you would tell from how he lifts it; it wouldn't surprise me at all if I was told Peeta was the strongest guy at school. "I have to stop at my locker before we go."

"Are you joking?" I ask, a very unbecoming hint of desperation in my voice. He's found the time to loiter outside the classroom and chat with his buddies – he couldn't have used that time to get his things?

"Was that… funny?" he asks, looking genuinely perplexed. He nods to his backpack. "I've got an entire day's worth of schoolbooks in here; I need to put all of them away and get the library books instead."

"Well… Hurry up about it, will you?" I say, fidgeting nervously. He gives me a confused look and walks over to his locker. I barely keep in a groan, feeling far more antsy than I ever recall having done out in the forest.

"I'll be with you in a minute," promises Peeta, opening his locker. I get a glimpse of what's inside and I'm surprised by how neat and tidy he keeps it. My own locker is a mess; I just throw in whatever I don't need for the moment and close the thing as soon as possible. Peeta keeps his books neatly stacked, his outerwear tidily hung up on coat hangers and not a single excessive item in sight. I suppose I oughtn't to be surprised – he seems like a tidy sort of person, although the state of his locker suggests something akin to a neat freak, and I know he's not  _that_  obsessive about it.

I step over to the other wall and lean against it while I wait. Peeta resumes his conversation with the other merchant kids, in particular with the girl he was dancing with at the Harvest Feast, the girl whose name keeps escaping me. I'm pretty sure it's Belle, the girl whose twin brother Beau died of influenza two years ago. Both twins were sick but when only one came back to school most people seemed at a loss for what to say to her and how to act around her. I remember thinking I was probably one of the few fellow students who could understand a loss like that but she and I were never friends before and I didn't know how to approach her once her twin had been taken from her. So, I didn't.

Right now, she's talking to her friends in general and Peeta in particular. I try not to eavesdrop, or whatever you call it in a situation like this, but it's hard not to overhear. From what I gather she apparently missed school on Friday and is trying to catch up on what happened in math class. I can't hear the entirety of the conversation since the noise level in the hallway is pretty high and their other merchant friends won't seem to shut up either but I do wonder why she's asking Peeta of all people.

"The exam on fractions is on Thursday," says Peeta, making me shudder at the reminder of the upcoming test.

"Will it just be fractions?"

"When have our math tests ever been  _just_  one thing? Count on them wanting to make sure we still remember all our previous years of math, just for the heck of it. Especially now that all teachers seem to have gone mad and want to make sure we remember  _everything_  from our collective years of schooling."

"Okay, what about history?" she asks. "What about our papers? Did Mr. Bates…"

"No," says Peeta, answering the question she didn't even ask. He closes his locker and makes sure it's locked. "Not for another two weeks. I'd get started on it right away though, if I were you."

"I know, I know."

This exchange causes one of the guys standing beside them to laugh.

"So, do the two of you know each other by any chance? Spend time together outside of class?"

I turn my face away, my scowl deepening. The implication is oddly bothering to me. It reminds me of myself and Gale, actually, and how well we understand one another. I had no idea Peeta had such a close relationship with some girl that he instinctively knows what she's asking. I know it's petty but I feel a bit like I begrudge them this. Gale and I are so close because we rely on each other to survive, hunting together as a team out in the woods, a relationship that's taken years and a lot of hard work to build. It seems that kind of a close link should be exclusive and not just occur at random between any two people.

I turn my eyes back to Peeta just in time to see him kiss the girl on the cheek and tell her they'll see each other later. He waves goodbye to the rest of the group and walks up to me, pressing his books to his chest.

"Sorry," he says. "I'm ready to go now. You all set?"

"Come on," I say sourly. "Let's get started already."

"Your partner keeping you on a short leash, there, Peete?" chuckles one of the guys in Peeta's group of friends.

"Lay off her, Stork," warns Peeta.

"How can you be friends with so many jerks?" I mutter as we walk, more to myself than to him, really.

"They're not jerks," he responds anyway. "But they don't know you any better than you know them, so you guys just misunderstand each other."

"Really?" I scoff, giving him a pointed look. "You just told your friend off, yourself. Now you want to tell me he was being nice?"

"And you just snarled at me in front of people I have been friends with for most of my life," he retorts. "Should I criticize them for not liking that?"

I stop for a second and look at him with a mixture of irritation, stemming from nervousness, and a bit of admiration of him backing his friend up. He meets my look with his usual steadiness, no dislike in his eyes but still a challenging resolve there. Not knowing quite what to say or do in response to that I simply begin walking again. I know I oughtn't to take my anxiety out on him – or his friends for that matter – but I'm not good at hiding emotions like that. Typical, really, that there are certain emotions that I'm able to keep very guarded yet ones that I would be better off concealing often seem impossible for me to hide. And for perhaps the first time I wonder what Peeta's friends really think of me. I don't care much about their opinion of me personally, but I don't want them to think I'm a bitch who treats him with meanness.

While I stride down the hallway, Peeta following half a step behind, I decide two things in short order. First of all, I don't want to wait any longer than absolutely necessary to find out if we're doing the verbal exam or not. Second of all, I don't want to find out where a lot of other people are around. In case I spew out a curse word or two. So when we turn a corner and find ourselves in a fairly empty corridor I stop, resulting in Peeta walking right into my left shoulder. I grimace but decide I don't care that it hurt, unceremoniously beginning to open the envelope.

"I didn't realize you were this concerned," says Peeta, voice brimming with the kind of compassion and care that would normally anger me and make me feel pitied.

His eyes dart quickly between my face and the envelope several times, so much worry in them that I feel a little bit bad for making him feel so concerned. Though only a little bit bad. I've been building this up in my head over the last few days, imagining how much I would embarrass myself if I had to sit there with him and perform during a verbal test, most definitely falling way short of his abilities to always say the right thing. Not only would it be terribly embarrassing, I would be letting him down, bringing his grade down along with my own. I haven't felt this disconcerted since the last reaping.

I manage to get the envelope open and pull out the papers inside, my hands thankfully not trembling. My eyes skim over the first few lines of text. Then, without any regard for the fact that we are in a public hallway and people are still around, I throw my arms around Peeta's neck, closing my eyes hard. I bury my face against the nape of his neck, finally breathing easy, inhaling his comforting scent of cinnamon and dill.

"You were right," I mumble against his neck. "I should have known that you'd be right. They must be going for those who didn't do so well on their essays."

He doesn't reject my hug, despite whatever he was concerned about a week ago. In fact, his arms warp around me, his hands finding their way under my backpack, rubbing my back comfortingly.

"You should have told me you were this worried," he says, keeping his voice low to prevent anyone around us from overhearing. "You should have talked to me. We could have… I don't know, but we could have… I would have found some way of helping you."

I find myself smiling.

"You  _did_  help me," I tell him, not even completely sure what I mean by it, so I don't elaborate. All I know at this moment is that I'm so relieved that we weren't chosen and that his arms feel so good, in truth far better than Gale's ever have, that I don't want to be the first one to let go.

But once the thought passes through my head it's instantly sobering, making me pull back – albeit gently. I shouldn't feel like that, regardless of the circumstances. No other boy's embrace should feel better than my own boyfriend's.  _What the hell is wrong with me_?

"So… library?" says Peeta, a small, crooked smile on his lips.

"Library," I nod, returning the smile though I inwardly cringe at my own inability to be a normal girlfriend.

* * *

When we reach the library my eyes immediately go towards the table where we sat during our first session here, and it is indeed available today. I notice that Peeta, however, is looking in another direction – towards the row of tables where we sat last week. The ones that had a couch. I look over there and find two empty tables, and then I meet Peeta's eyes. The second he begins to grin I realize what he's thinking, and the next thing I know he's taken off running towards the tables in question. I barely get a volume-appropriate cry of protest out before I've set off after him, slaloming between bookshelves, tables and the occasional person as I try to reach the couch before he does. I'm fast but he got a second's head start on me, and he's surprisingly fast himself even with that heavy backpack of his. He throws himself down on the couch just an instant before I reach it and he's silently laughing when he looks up at me, clearly very pleased with himself. I give him a playful whack with the envelope but can barely contain my own laughter – a laughter that probably stems just as much from the release of tension earlier as it does from the actual situation at hand.

"You're a poor excuse for a gentleman, you know," I tease, taking off my backpack and pulling out a chair opposite him.

"Hey, no one says you can't sit on the couch beside me," he replies with a grin, unzipping his backpack. "Unless you're referring to how I just egged you on to partake in causing a scene in the library. In which case I do honestly apologize."

I turn my head and find several people eyeing us with either confusion, amusement or irritation. Luckily there are only students around, no teachers and no Miss Dunhill. I decide I don't care what they think. True, I behaved like a child and probably made a fool of myself, but so what? In a few short months I will be all but a step away from full adulthood, the only thing remaining before my childhood is completely over being my nineteenth birthday next year. I can afford to have a moment of childishness before all that comes to an end.

"Next week we're sitting in the assembly room," I say to Peeta, turning back to face him. "You don't deserve the couch spot one more week."

"Fair enough," he says with a crooked smirk, opening a textbook to the page he's got marked with what looks like a candy wrapper. "Anyway, new topic. I need about ten or fifteen more minutes to go over a chapter in this book, then I'm all ready to start working on our… presentation."

"Take whatever time you need." With a small smile on my lips I unpack the things I need from my own backpack. I'm glad we'll be finishing up with all these library books this week because they're starting to get heavy to lug around everywhere. Suddenly Peeta begins to laugh and I look over at him. "What?" I ask.

"I just realized – I know we didn't get picked to do the verbal test, and instead got served an extra slice of regular project crap…" He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, at the same time. "But I don't have a clue  _what_  we've been assigned, and have to find time for somehow. I totally forgot to ask you about that part."

"Here," I say, handing the envelope to him, too embarrassed to admit to him that I don't know either. All I read was enough to know there won't be a verbal exam coming our way, and then I stopped reading. "See for yourself."

He takes the envelope, pulls out the piece of paper inside, and begins to read. I watch his grin turn into a look of sheer surprise, his eyebrows shooting so far up that they almost disappear beneath his curly bangs. Then he begins to chuckle again, leaning back in his chair and tossing the piece of paper on the table.

"Well, we are busy bees, aren't we? Really, we ought to get our act together."

What does that mean? Scowling I pick the paper up and read it from start to finish. It doesn't contain a lot of text, but what it does say is indeed surprising. I fight back a groan of surprise and instead settle for a sigh, tossing the paper onto the table just like Peeta did a moment ago.

"Twins?" I say, my voice full of disbelief. "What sick, twisted, idiot teacher decided that we would, quite soon after having one baby and you not having a job, decide to go and have  _twins_?"

"Strictly speaking I don't believe anyone outside the Capitol  _decides_  to go have twins," says Peeta dryly, though he's still got a smirk on his face. He searches through the pile of books on the table until he finds the old textbook we once committed a break-in to acquire. "But hey, at least we can probably consider our marital troubles overcome."

"How exactly are they  _overcome_?" I ask grumpily, crossing my arms and scowling. " _Twins_ , Peeta." I spell the word for him slowly. "T-w-i-n-s. As in twice the pain in the ass."

"Yeah, but at least we were on good terms to make them."

"That isn't funny!"

"Come on, it's just an exercise," he reminds me, sounding frustratingly cavalier. He grabs his pencil and begins to flip through the pages of the textbook. "I bet everyone got a real oddball of an extra assignment this week. At least our house didn't burn down. Again."

"Anyone ever tell you that too much optimism can be a bad thing?"

"I've cheerfully chosen to ignore such pessimistic nonsense."

"Why do I even like you?" I sigh, very nearly freezing up when I realize the words that just left my mouth. Struggling to remain causal I start turning the pages of my notebook to find the page I was last on. "My fictional self asks herself that question every minute of every hour of every day of this made up pregnancy."

"And probably even more often than that during childbirth," he says in a tone that's so utterly casual it makes me both a touch confused and even a little bit uncomfortable. He continues to flip through the pages of the textbook, though at a slower pace now, eyeing each page more closely, like he's searching for something in particular "Anyway, while I'm sure it's not so easy to be pregnant with twins, and even less easy to have a toddler and infant twins in the house, by way of added workload we got off easy this week. All they're asking for is that we do a bit of research into how having twins differs from having singletons, and what it entails on a practical level for the first few weeks after birth.  _Surely_  facts that are bound to come in handy for both of us one day. All things considered, though, it could have been a lot worse."

"Oh don't you worry," I mutter, brushing a strand of hair away from my face as I grab the instructions to read them over one more time, this time with more attention paid. "Next week we'll no doubt have some other calamity befall us, like you being fired from your job or something, and then get to do another fun and exciting  _budget_!"

"Yeah, but it will be an easy one," he says, and I can hear from the tone of his voice that he's grinning. "Our income will be zero with me unemployed and you unable to work for the last part of your pregnancy. Easy-peasy."

"I don't get why you sound so upbeat when you say that," I comment, but I can't help a faint smile at the thought of the absurdity of it.

"On a more productive note," he continues, pushing the textbook a bit further from himself before reaching for his notebook, "how do you want to go about this? Get our grid project done first and then move on to tackling this new assignment? Or research the twin stuff and add it in with the rest?"

"I say we do all of the research first," I say. "Otherwise we're just doing the work twice over, aren't we? Might as well have everything compiled before we get to work on our anti-essay presentation."

He nods, the hint of a smile on his face. Then he begins to make suggestions as to how we should divide up this additional workload. I let him decide, figuring one way is as good as the other, and we get to work. But it soon becomes clear that we don't stand a chance at getting it all done by the end of the day. With dismay I begin to realize that it might in fact eat up most of our Sunday as well. Peeta, it seems, is one step ahead of me as we begin to pack up our things.

"You know, Tuesdays are usually the one day a week when I don't have anything after school," he says. "What do you say to staying late tomorrow, to get as much work done as possible?"

"Yeah," I say after a moment's pause. "Yeah, okay."

He flashes me a grin that seems oddly enthusiastic considering we're talking about staying late at school to essentially do homework, but he seems to be as prone to smiling as I am to scowling, so perhaps it's just his default face.

"Well, good, then," he says. "Then I will see you tomorrow after hours." He picks up his backpack, leaving one of the library books behind since he's done with it anyway. "I'm off to wrestling practice but I'll see you tomorrow." He makes a face. "I just said that twice, didn't I?"

"I believe you did."

"Then I'd better get going before I say it a third time." His hand reaches up and pats me on the shoulder as he walks past me. "See you tomorrow, Katniss. And thanks for today."

"Tomorrow," I confirm, watching him stroll out of the library as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

* * *

And so the following afternoon we meet up after our last class, deciding to go back to the assembly room this time around. Just like yesterday I stand by the wall waiting for Peeta to finish up at his locker, watching him with his crowd of friends. Mostly just guys today, the one girl apparently the girlfriend of one of Peeta's male friends. Said friend looks over at me, grins, and opens his mouth to no doubt make some clever yet asinine comment that probably pertains to the moronic notion that all Seam girls like to meet up with town boys at the slag heap to do things I cannot imagine are particularly fun to do outdoors. An ice-cold stare on my part stops him before he can say anything, though he does make wide eyes and form his lips in a silent whistle, giving his friends a side-eye. I wonder what these boys, each and every one of them appearing so idiotic to me, are like outside of school. They must be different when they're not all grouped together, or I can't see how Peeta would appreciate their company.

Eventually Peeta finishes up and says goodbye to the group at large, but to my dislike three of them – including the two that are dating – actually walk towards the assembly room with us. I suppose it shouldn't be surprising that others need to put in extra time to get the workload done but I shoot Peeta a look that implores him not to let them sit with us. I hope he knows me well enough to know I wouldn't be comfortable working on this along with a group of people who are  _his_  friends, not mine.

I'm caught by surprise when the girl in the group, Emelie, suddenly walks up next to me and gives me a smile which, I have to admit, my sullen scowl is not deserving of.

"So how are things going with you guys?" she asks kindly, pressing a book to her chest with both hands. "You think you'll be able to finish everything this afternoon?"

"What?" I say, slightly dumbfounded. Is she making small talk with me?

"We were actually perfectly in phase, you know?" she continues, still smiling despite my continued scowling. "Serves us right, I suppose, for getting so pleased with ourselves about it," she chuckles. "Did they saddle you guys with the ridiculous twin thing, too?"

"You mean… you guys got that assignment as well?" I ask, now actually a bit intrigued by the conversation.

"As far as I've been able to gather they only bothered to conjure up three different additional scenarios," she says, scoffing at the thought. "Either you're having twins, or your first child nearly dies – which I find is in rather poor taste as a  _school assignment_  – or you suddenly find yourself not wanting to  _be_  married anymore and have to look into the circumstances under which you can be granted a divorce." She raises a pointed eyebrow. "I'll give you a hint – there are no such circumstances. At least not if you've got kids, which means pretty much every team in this stupid project."

She keeps on talking, unbothered by my scarce replies, filling me in on the details of the process of divorce in outline districts, a subject she is well familiar with since, as she informs me, her sister was actually able to get one on account of not having had any children in her marriage. I don't personally know of anyone who's been divorced, though from what I gather it's not uncommon in the Capitol. It's a short walk to the assembly room so I don't get to hear the end of Emelie's story, but I make a mental note of one of the things she said, just in case our teachers decide that after getting through fires and firings and sickness and  _twins_ , Peeta and I would fictionally decide to throw in the towel and go our separate ways in the last few weeks of the project. Quite simply, we wouldn't be allowed to end our marriage. The government only seems to give that courtesy to childless couples, in the hopes that they might do a better job of procreating if wed to other people.

"Hey Katniss, look!" says Peeta once we've reached the assembly room, his hand landing on my shoulder blade for a brief second before pulling back again. "Our table is available." He chortles. "I wasn't expecting that."

"You guys have your own  _table_?" questions Emelie's boyfriend.

"And it was Ryean's before us, and Scotti's before him, and our parents before him, going back a thousand years in the Mellark family," answers Peeta dramatically, eliciting scoffs, eye-rolls and chuckles from his group. "Come on, Katniss, let's hurry up and take it before somebody else beats us to it."

I bring a small smile to my face as we begin to walk towards said table and my eyes meet with Emelie's.

"Good luck," I tell her. "Hope you'll be able to finish everything today."

"Likewise," she smiles, and to my surprise gives her boyfriend a quick kiss before heading off with one of the other guys in the group, apparently not partnered with her significant other. That's got to be odd, I can't help but note. If Gale is uncomfortable with me doing this project with a guy he doesn't know, what must her boyfriend feel knowing that his girlfriend is partnered with a friend of his?

Pulling out my usual chair I turn my mind back to my own project and my own partner, who has already taken his seat and begun to unpack his backpack. It all feels so eerily familiar, being back here after a few short weeks of working in the library instead. We both seem to be going through the motions in getting everything in order and getting to work. It's almost surreal to think how accustomed I've gotten to these routines with Peeta… and how soon it will be over, and we'll have spent our last hour working together at this table.

* * *

About twenty minutes later we're fully emerged in the world of our fake marriage, and the work we have to do, and I've practically forgotten all about my earlier thoughts. I thank our lucky stars that we not only stole those textbooks a few weeks back, but that we also made the decision to spend some time in the library and got our hands on everything available from the meagre selection. For somewhat obvious reasons, there's not an abundance of literature on twins and twin pregnancies at this particular school library and it seems roughly one third of our classmates would love to get their hands on the same books as we've got. The division of work load Peeta crafted yesterday has been thrown out the window since about eighteen minutes ago, once we realized exactly how scarce the information on this topic actually is, and now we're rummaging through our books as fast as we can, calling out to the other when we find anything of note for me to scribble down in my notebook.

"According to this, the likelihood of twin girls is higher than that of twin boys," says Peeta, flipping the page of his book. His words are a touch garbled, as he's got his pencil between his teeth.

"Mm, yeah," I say without looking up from my own book. "Sounds about right. According to my mother, females are more viable than males, and since twin pregnancies are riskier…" I shrug. "Sounds like something worth mentioning, I suppose." Tearing my eyes from the book I jot the information down, adding it to the frustratingly short list.

"Really," says Peeta, leaning back in his chair with a slow nod and finally taking the pencil from his mouth. "Females more viable, huh? And to think that all my mother wanted was a daughter. My father too, but it was especially important to her. I should tell her that piece of trivia. Encourage her to feel proud that she was able to produce three whole boys with the odds against her like that."

I look up at him from under my bangs. I don't like the comment about odds, nor the tone in his voice. He's clearly going for jesting sarcasm but there's a bitterness underneath that he can't disguise.

"Actually, more boys are born than girls. There's just a higher survival rate with girls during the first year or so. So maybe more boy twins are conceived but fewer of them make it through all nine months."

"Huh." He taps his pencil against his lip with a pensive look on his face. "So, you're saying what I ought to commend her for is keeping all three of us alive past our infancy? I should be especially grateful, I suppose. Once she had gotten Scotti and Ryean past the cut-off age the odds were stacked against me."

"You're being silly," I say, turning my eyes back to my book, hoping he will stop talking about odds – and about himself in that way.

"Everything about this is silly," he sighs under his breath, but at least he leans back over his books and goes back to work.

Against what the mood calls for, and my own character really, I find myself suddenly curious and act upon that curiosity – and I blame Peeta for it in a way, since he's so good at creating a relaxed environment, without which I doubt I would have done this. I blurt out the question that popped into my brain, immediately feeling bad about it because it might very well be touching on a sore spot for him, but I can't take the words back once they're out there.

"So how come you are the youngest? If both your parents wanted a daughter, why not keep trying?" I cringe inwardly but since I've already put my foot in my mouth I might as well follow through. "A lot of families have five children or more; you and I both come from comparatively small sibling groups."

He doesn't answer for almost half a minute, very long seconds when the person asking the question is already feeling terrible about asking in the first place. He doesn't look mad or sad per se, but contemplative and very serious.

"They didn't want more mouths to feed than they could handle." The corner of his mouth turns upward for half a second. "Living in town really doesn't mean always leaving the table with your stomach full. My mother has told me how once I came along it became increasingly difficult to feed all three of us, so they made the decision not to have a fourth child." I'm not sure what to say, so I say nothing, waiting in silence while he stares out into nothing for what feels like ages. Suddenly he shrugs and leans forward again, hunching over his book. "Typical District 12 irony, being stranded with three unruly boys instead of getting at least one daughter."

He looks like he's thinking something much darker to himself, his jaw clenching and his eyes uncommonly cold. I don't want to imagine what self-deprecating things must be going through his mind and since I know I could never find any good words to say to make him feel better I simply stay silent. Nothing more is said between us for probably ten minutes, each of us turning the pages of our books and letting our eyes move quickly over the pages to try and spot anything useful. I end up being the first one to find anything interesting, alerting Peeta to the information I've stumbled across while trying to keep my voice as natural sounding as I can. He looks up at me, nods in acknowledgement and goes back to the book in front of him, closing it with a sigh as it apparently doesn't have anything else of interest in it. He grabs the next book and finds its back index, his finger tracing the word listing in search for anything that might be of interest.

"So…" I say, starting to feel a bit dizzy from looking over so much text. "How long do you figure we ought to keep looking? At some point we ought to have… I mean, the well's bound to run dry fairly soon anyway, right?"

"Let's give it another five," he says, casting a look at the large clock on the wall. "Then, we start compiling it. Sound good?"

"Alright," I nod. "Do you… I mean… For how long can you stay?"

He gives me a half-hearted, crooked smile that looks about as weary as I feel after staring at page after page after page in search of scant information.

"About another half-hour."

"A half-hour?" I echo sceptically. "We need a lot longer than that."

"Actually, we only need to compile what we've got and figure out which parts to put roughly where."

"Yeah, and make the actual grid thing and put everything in its intended place," I point out.

"I'll do that at home tonight," he assures me with a dismissive hand-wave.

"Excuse me? Peeta since when have I been on board with arrangements like that?"

"It's not a two-man job anyway," he insists. "I've given it thought, trust me. One of us would end up working and the other sitting around twiddling their thumbs – or worse, annoy the crap out of the person working. It's better and more coherent if one of us does the final composition and I think it should be me."

"Why?" I question. "Because you're a control freak who would lie awake all night worrying that I might not do it to your liking?"

"You think I lie awake all night thinking about the things you do?" he asks, the remark so light-hearted – even complete with a wink – that I find myself opening and closing my mouth several times in rapid succession, struggling to wrap my mind around it. Peeta merely shrugs it off and nods to my notebook. "Actually, I feel I should do it since it was my suggestion in the first place, and I think I'm the better one at artistic stuff like doing the layout. The rest, as I said, is just adding the stuff we already decided on together. But if you want to make yourself extra useful you could go ahead and start compiling what we've got so far on the twin issue, and of course your own part of the other work, and finding the best way to write it down. Pith would be the theme we're going for."

"Uhm…" I manage, before being interrupted.

"Oh and there's one other thing you could be in charge of, if you feel like it. Something you can do at home and have prepared for Monday."

"Okay?" I say warily.

He gives me a wide, teasing grin.

"Find names for our new little bundles of joy. We'll need two male and two female names – just in case."

I frown, feeling like I've somehow been led into a trap even though I'm not sure for what purpose, or how it even came about. But I can't very well protest either, I suppose, and he does have a point in that it's not really a two-man job to make the actual presentation. What I do disagree on is that it wouldn't take long to do it. But if he's so insistent, maybe I should just let him have things his way. The only other option, as I see it, is sacrificing a whole Sunday's worth of hunting time and this time of year that's really not a luxury I have. With that said, I feel I shouldn't let him have the last laugh, so to speak, so I turn the page in my notebook and make four dots, one for each baby name required.

"Katniss and Peeta Jr, it is," I say with a theatrical sigh. "Now what would the masculine form of Katniss be, and the feminine of Peeta?"

I see him doing a double-take in the corner of my eye and can't contain my smirk. He notices, and I hear him chuckle.

"Poor little Hunter is going to be so confused," he declares, which makes me chuckle as well, despite myself.

I busy myself trying to find ways to summarize our gathered information into short, to-the-point paragraphs which would fit into the grid once it's been drawn up. We have previously agreed on the topics we want for each column so I have that to go by, but it's harder than anticipated to present our research in just a few words per category. It's not long before my mind begins to wander, as if it needs a break from the task at hand.

My eyes travel from one end of the assembly room to the other, taking in our classmates struggling with their projects and the various other students working on their homework. There are a lot of people from our class who seem to be doing project work, like us, which is to be expected since they landed all this extra work on us. Our classmates are all paired up, a boy and a girl, but there are younger students as well sitting together that way. One pair of kids in the year beneath ours are sitting together at one of the smallest tables, their hands interlocked and resting on the table as they each have their eyes in their own books. It must be very difficult to study that way and I reckon they have either just very recently begun dating or they are eager to showcase their togetherness to anyone who might see, or this impracticality would have been dismissed long ago. Two of our classmates have found a spot on one of the small, uncomfortable benches along the south wall and are reading together from a textbook of some kind, the girl sitting on the boy's lap and leaning her head against his. I wonder if these two are planning on getting married for real once we have graduated and they turn nineteen, if they both survive our final reaping.

"Do you think couples who get together at our age are so prone to having a toasting as soon as possible after school is done because of the Reaping?" I ask Peeta.

"Why? How do you mean?" He is looking up at me through his curly bangs, not bothering to lift his head from the notebook in front of him.

"Well… Just, if we didn't have that fresh reminder of our mortality right at the same time as we graduate and head out into the adult world, do you think people would choose to wait longer? I mean, what's the rush, anyway?"

"Love can be a powerful motivator." Bless him for managing to say something so obvious-sounding without it seeming condescending. "Wanting to be together, live together… It's got to be tough being in love with each other yet having to live apart."

"But look at those two," I say, nodding discreetly at the pair on the bench. "Were they even officially dating when the project started? I wouldn't be surprised if they are intending to do all of this for real as soon as summer is here. Find jobs, plan a toasting, all of that… It's so early. Why not wait? How can they be sure?" I shake my head a bit. "It's a  _big_  thing not to be completely sure of."

I think of Gale and how I know he would like for us to be married as soon as I'm able to be, even though I know he will respect my need to wait longer. To wait  _forever_ , really, but we haven't talked much about that aspect lately. The two of us have known each other for years and have a very close and solid friendship and we know each other's quirks and habits and moods. All the things I imagine one ought to know about a person before committing to them for life. And yet I don't feel at all ready to have a toasting with Gale and live under one roof with him. Not just because I never want to be married – period – but because forever is a very long time. How can I be sure that we'll still want to be around each other that way a few years down the line?

"I don't know," answers Peeta after a moment, putting his pencil aside and lifting his head to focus on me and not the school work. "Maybe some of them get married too quickly and live to regret it… Then again there are many reasons to get married and love is only one factor. There might be other factors involved that make people to have a toasting at nineteen. Some don't even marry for love at all."

I look over at the young couple again, scowl in place as I observe them. Then I look back at Peeta. I can't help but wonder if he's thinking of his own parents. I haven't given much thought to why anyone would choose to marry if not for love, not in this district when you're better off unmarried and childless on Reaping Day, but if any couple fits the bill of marriage without love it is Mr. and Mrs. Mellark. I simply can't imagine any romance having ever gone on between the two of them. I don't even know if I believe her capable of those kinds of feelings. What I don't understand though is how come they still had children, especially since Peeta more or less said outright that they might have had more if they had had the resources to aptly provide for them. There are a few couples who never become parents and I have previously written them off as simply lucky enough to be barren – a sentiment that is proof of just how warped living with the Hunger Games truly is – but if Peeta is right and some don't marry for love at all I assume those are the couples who never have children. Peeta's parents, however, had three.

"You look contemplative," says Peeta, saying the last word with a Capitol accent. Sometimes he does that when using fancy words they teach us in English class, but nobody ever really uses. Most of the time it makes me smile but at the moment I'm too preoccupied with the questions buzzing through my mind.

"I just don't get it," I say. I lean in over the table and lower my voice and in response he leans in to hear me better. "Why get married at all if not for love? And no, it's not that I'm such a romantic. I just don't see why anyone would bother. Why risk marriage and babies and having your family torn apart by the Games?"

"For companionship, I guess," answers Peeta, leaning back and speaking in a normal tone, clearly not deeming my opinions potentially controversial. "To be able to move out from your parents' home. To have the opportunity for better employment – the Justice Building only employs married people. For any combination of the above. I don't know. Some might do it to please their parents. There are any number of reasons. Though I would personally want to  _love_  my wife. From the start, I mean. I know sometimes love develops between people who married for other reasons, but I wouldn't want to simply cross my fingers and hope for that to happen with my  _life partner_." He makes a face and picks his pencil back up, drumming it against his fingertips. "I agree with you that whatever the reason it's better to wait a while. It's a huge decision to make. Even if you are madly in love you can't know for sure that that love will always be there. I want to believe love can last forever but I've been told that's a naïve notion."

"No it isn't," I say, slowly leaning back as well. "Love that lasts a lifetime is real. I've seen it." I think of my mother and how she still is, and probably always will be, a wreck after the loss of the man she loves. How she'll probably never fall out of love with him, despite him being nothing more than a ghost now. I snort and shake my head a little. "I don't want that. To have one person mean that much to you? The more you love the more you'll lose. Besides, it seems it takes away your independence, feeling that strong an attachment to somebody else."

"It's scary," agrees Peeta. "Loving someone completely and utterly. You're right, it is in a way about giving up independence and being absorbed by another person, but from what I can tell the rewards far outweigh the risks. Only, it's not a matter of choice. We can't choose not to love. If it hits us it hits us. It doesn't let go even if we really want it to but then sometimes it lets go even if we  _don't_  want it to. All in all it's a complicated thing and we're powerless to prevent it."

"No we're not," I say firmly.

"The heart wants what the heart wants," says Peeta with a contemplative shrug. "Whether or not we  _act_  on our feelings is within our power but the feelings themselves… You just can't control them."

"I'm not going to open up my heart like that," I say sullenly. "I won't risk it. And that's just that."

He nods slightly, seemingly not intending to argue the point any further. I don't say anything else either and after a moment of somewhat awkward silence we both go back to our work, spending the remaining time discussing only minor problems that pop up along the way. It's only as our time draws near its end that I realize that what I said about love and not wanting to fall into it that deeply is a very questionable thing to say for someone in a relationship, especially when saying it to a classmate I don't have a close friendship with. Peeta must have realized the unseemliness of what I was saying, he's far too perceptive not to have done so, but he didn't comment. He will probably just try and forget the whole conversation or at least keep my words to himself but it doesn't sit right with me to let him believe I'm unfeeling and unloving towards my boyfriend. So as he begins to pack up his things I speak up, wanting to clear the air before he can thank me for the day and be on his way.

"What I said before…" I say, fidgeting awkwardly in my chair. "About love and… not wanting it and all…"

"Yeah?" He casts me a quick glance, stuffing his books into his worn backpack.

I hark, stalling for time really, and my fingertips tug on the end of my braid. I kind of wish I hadn't opened my mouth just now but I need to do damage control. If the roles were reversed – well they never would be because Peeta wouldn't put his foot in his mouth like that to begin with – my project partner would know exactly what to say. I wish I could be more like him in that regard.

"Katniss if… if there's something you want to talk about I'm all ears," he now says, his tone calm and casual. "If there's something you  _don't_  want to talk about that's fine too."

"I just think I gave off the wrong impression before," I say hastily, anxious to get the conversation over with. "When I talked about love and… not wanting it. I mean, I'm with Gale. Dating."

"I know."

"And I wouldn't be with him if I didn't…" My voice trails off. I can't seem to bring myself to say out loud that I love him. Not because I don't but because I'm not entirely sure how much of that love is romantic and I feel terribly awkward discussing it openly.

"If you're worried that you sounded like you don't care for him then don't be," says Peeta. His usual friendly smile is not on his face but he doesn't look unkind either. He puts his backpack over his left shoulder and seems ready to leave.

"It must have sounded that way," I mutter miserably, averting my eyes. "It must have sounded kind of horrible."

"It sounded like… Don't be offended or anything but it sounded like fear." I look up and meet his blue eyes, looking into mine without any trace of hesitation even though he knows I might not like what he's saying. "You know, like as if you don't know what those feelings might lead to and as we said, love is a huge and powerful and somewhat frightening thing. I don't think there's anything wrong or bad with that. Don't feel bad. Please don't feel uncomfortable either. I, uh… I find it interesting that you tell me things like that and I swear I keep them to myself." His eyes finally falter, as if he's much more nervous to say these things to me than what he said right before it. "You are a very guarded person and… I'm glad you feel comfortable in my company and I… I hope I don't make you say things you wish you had kept to yourself."

"No…" I say softly. "No. Not at all."

"Good." He nods slightly. "Well, I've got to run. Already a bit late. Make sure to hand me your finished summaries no later than Friday. Thank you for today. See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," I murmur, still sitting in my chair as I watch him leave the room. Something tells me that when Peeta Mellark has his toasting he will be one hundred percent sure that he wants that commitment. And I can't help but sense that whoever the lucky girl will end up being, she will be just as sure as him.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who follows me on tumblr might know that I was unlucky enough to suffer a complete computer crash a week ago. Right when I was in the middle of a writing spree and had completed about half the new chapter, no less, and almost all that work ended up being lost. Well, I finally got my computer back and I've been working like crazy to complete the chapter while I still remember roughly what I had written. It's extremely frustrating, though, because it never turns out as good the second time around.
> 
> And even though I got the chapter finished and managed a quicker update than I've been able to most of this year, I still have to offer apologies for this chapter. Truthfully, it doesn't do much to advance the plot or the characters. Originally there was just one brief scene where I added an element that was only meant to give it a flavour of "everyday life realism", but I ended up liking the element enough that I expanded upon it. Then it ended up filling an entire chapter. So while I think you might still enjoy it, I fully admit that it kind of grinds things to a halt for a moment.

The following week starts off different than usual. Peeta's come down with something, and judging by his glossy eyes, flushed cheeks and red nose, actually has a fever. It seems he would be best off tucked into bed, not busying his head with yet another hour of schoolwork before he can go home, but he seems determined to dismiss his current condition as much as possible. But there's no denying that by the time project hour comes around he's been struggling to stay alert all day and seems visibly exhausted, and I contemplate offering to bring him back home with me so he can lie down and have my mother check up on him. We can work from my living room, him resting on the couch and me on the floor, just as well as we can work in the assembly room.

We've gotten a new assignment from Mr. Stoker and I flip the envelope back and forth between my hands while we head for our favourite table, trying to figure out how to present my suggestion of bringing him to my home without it sounding too strange. Once we reach the table and he pulls out a chair I decide that we'll give this a try first, but if he begins to look even more exhausted than he already does then I'm going to drag him home with me, whether he approves of the idea or not.

"You shouldn't sit so close to me," he says, his voice hoarse and affected by his stuffy nose. "You don't need to catch my cold."

With a nod I take a seat opposite him, which is as far apart as we can get at our usual table. I'm not overly concerned about him getting me sick; I figure that an extra foot or two of space between us won't make a bit of difference, and he had a runny nose back on Friday when I met up with him to hand him my part for the presentation, so I've already been in contact with the bug he has. It impresses me that he completed our presentation, and did a wonderful job on it, despite being in this condition over the weekend. He draws a sniffling breath through his nose as he opens his backpack to start rummaging for everything he needs for our work session and when we swallows I can tell it hurts. What he calls a cold seems more like a case of the flu and I hope he will bounce back fast – school has never been as intense as it is now, with a mere three months to go before it all ends, and none of us can afford to not be at the top of our game for very long. I don't even want to think about the things that can develop  _from_  the flu – things that can turn out to be deadly, even at our age. I push the thought as far away from my mind as possible.

As I open my own backpack it occurs to me that in trying to put some distance between us, we are now sitting the way we sat when we first started this project together. Over the course of these five months we have come to move closer to one another as our feeling of comfort around one another has increased. It feels odd going back to this old seating arrangement. I appreciate the practicality of trying not to keep some space between us so that I might not fall ill as well but it is so much easier to work together when we're right next to each other.

"So I guess I should read our next assignment," I say, and he nods and shrugs a shoulder. I grab the envelope from the table and open it up, pulling out a single sheet of paper, which surprises me a little. I let the envelope drop back on the table while I begin to read. "Alright… Let's see here…" Briefly I pause from reading and look up at Peeta. "Turns out your make-believe genes can beat the crap out of mine, because those twins have now been born, and both are boys."

"Cute," says Peeta with a sniffle. "Do we have to go to the Justice Building and grab more forms to fill out?"

"No… No, it doesn't seem we have to do all that stuff again, probably because we've either learned what we needed to learn by now, or we're a hopeless case." I scoff as I continue to read. "But lo and behold, in addition to  _naming_  the babies, which I cannot for the life of me see the purpose of, we have to draw up a…" I take a pause to let my fingers drum against the table, and Peeta finishes the sentence for me.

"A budget?"

"A budget, Mr. Mellark!" I confirm with feigned enthusiastic surprise. "What were the odds?" I read the rest of the text before summarizing it for him. "The rest is surprisingly tame. Some stuff about figuring out who will look after the kiddies once I'm back to work, which I assure you will be as soon as humanly possible, and we have to write up something about how we plan on dealing with the logistics of having  _two_  infants, along with a toddler. That's it."

"How much time do we have with this?" asks Peeta, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Just a week. But I doubt it will take us that long." I put the paper aside and cross my arms on the table, leaning forward a bit. "Where do you want to start?"

"Let's get the damn budget out of the way," he sighs. "Then we'll name the twins – something I never thought I would actually say – and then write something brief about who will look after the kids later, and the complicated intricacies of having only two people to change the nappies of two babies."

I smirk at his sarcasm and put him on calculating what our income ought to be at this point, while I work on a list of expenses. His part doesn't really require all that much work, but he could use a break today, and he doesn't protest.

With his eyes glued to the notes about our finances from the last budget we made, Peeta reaches inside his backpack and produces a red metal thermos that looks surprisingly shiny, no doubt having been well taken care of since it can hardly be new. I furrow my brow, trying to recall where I've seen it before. Peeta unscrews the lid and uses it as a mug, pouring steaming hot tea into it. He reaches inside his bag again and begins to rummage once more, this time needing to take his eyes off the work and look inside the bag in order to find what he's looking for. Finally he takes out a small plastic container, opens it up and pours a little bit of honey into the tea. Carefully he runs his hand along its rim to gather up any stray drops, puts the lid back on the container without spilling any of the precious honey and then puts it back in his bag. He gives me a quick look and a half-hearted smile.

"I would offer you some tea but I don't have a mug and I wouldn't do you any favours letting you share mine today."

"That's fine," I assure him.

"It's rude, really. But it can't be helped."

"It's  _fine_."

"My mother insists on sending willow bark tea with me whenever I've got a cold." He blows on the hot beverage before carefully taking a sip, testing its temperature.

"Really?" I say, trying to mask my surprise.

He nods and coughs into the bend of his arm. He makes a face, the coughing probably hurting his throat. He blows on the tea again, from the looks of it deeming the beverage still too hot to drink just yet. He sets the makeshift mug down on the table, at a safe enough distance from the books and notebooks and loose pieces of papers lying around.

"She insists on the honey, too, even though it makes the tea far too sweet. She would actually prefer it if I were tucked into bed at home," he says, his hoarse voice breaking slightly. He's probably going to lose his voice completely in a few days' time and spend the rest of the week practically silent. "My father insist that we go to school unless we have a high fever. He reasons that we can always cut the day short and go back home if we get worse."

_If_  he gets worse? Hasn't he hit that point by now? I avert my eyes, focusing on my notebook instead, feeling a little awkward because I can't tell if he's joking or not about his parents. Logic seems to dictate that he is, but he sounds completely serious. I can't very well ask him either. I know I'm not always the most sociable person but telling him to his face that his mother doesn't strike me as the nurturing type is too rude for my comfort. Though no matter how hard I try I cannot imagine Mrs. Mellark wanting to tuck Peeta in and sending him willow bark tea to school while Mr. Mellark insists that he not stay home. I can only picture it being the other way around, with Peeta's father sneaking the thermos into his son's backpack.

Peeta picks up his mug and takes another sip and it occurs to me where I've seen the thermos before. It's one out of three which they use to serve coffee and tea at the bakery. I've seen them through the window when Prim and I have stopped to look at the cakes. Maybe they have no other thermoses than those three but it bewilders me that the witch who struck her twelve-year-old hard enough to leave a black eye simply for burning bread would send something that no doubt has a high value to school with her son when he is sick.

Suddenly I notice Peeta eyeing me suspiciously. Uh-oh. My bafflement must have been written all over my face. He doesn't seem particularly pleased and I wonder if he suspects what I'm thinking. I hark my throat and nod to the tea.

"I didn't know your mother knew how to make willow bark tea," I say, hoping that it will be sufficient to put him at ease. He seems to be even more puzzled now, his eyes going from me to the tea and back again.

"She may not be a healer but almost everyone knows how to make willow bark tea," he says.

"Right," I mumble. "Yeah." So I come off looking like an idiot but at least not a particularly offensive idiot.

"Though really, any tea would do as far as I'm concerned," sighs Peeta, apparently willing to buy my cover-question and let the whole thing go. He takes a careful sip, wincing as he swallows. "I drink it mainly because the temperature soothes my throat. I tell you, I  _hate_  having a sore throat. I can take all the other parts of having a cold. Headaches, fever, muscle aches, coughs, runny nose, you name it. I can handle all of that but I just hate it when my throat aches. As a kid I used to get tonsillitis. I must have had it four or five times, which may not sound a lot but trust me, it was a pain." He scowls as he thinks back on those less than pleasant memories. "All my mother could do for me when I had it was to try and ease the pain with the willow bark, and other hot beverages. I remember one time, when I was eight, she bartered with one of the peacekeepers and got me ice-cream. It did the trick for my throat but of course it was so expensive, we could only afford a little. Still, it felt like a huge treat, and my brother Ryean got jealous over it." His eyes get a distant look to them as he continues on, taking small sips of his tea between sentences. "She tried having me gargle salty warm water, too, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I hate the taste and it felt like it hurt as much to gargle it as the sore throat did on its own. I guess that's one thing they forget to prepare us for with this scenario. How you handle your kids being sick."

He finishes talking and I realize I've been sitting here listening intently as if he was telling me a story, not recalling old memories of childhood illnesses. But it almost seems like a fairy-tale of some sort hearing of wicked old Mrs. Mellark bartering with peacekeepers to procure ice-cream for Peeta just to cure a sore throat. No matter how hard I try I can't even imagine her doing things like that. I'm not even entirely sure that Peeta is telling me the truth right now. I get the feeling he knows I don't hold his mother in high regard and wants me to feel otherwise about her, though I'm not about to change my mind. It's not as if it matters anyway. I doubt I'm ever going to speak more than two words to her save for the times she answers my knock at the bakery's back door.

The next ten minutes we both do our work sans conversation, at least on my part intentionally, to go easy on his voice and sore throat. There are a few things that I otherwise would have asked his opinion of, but it's not that important. The biggest element of disruption is having to listen to his frequent sniffles, coughs and yawns. I try not to give him concerned looks every other minute but it's hard to just ignore his condition right now. Every time he swallows I can practically  _hear_  how painful it is. When I realize I haven't heard him write anything for several minutes I do look up and I find him looking at his notebook without appearing to be aware of what he's looking at, swaying just the slightest bit from side to side, mouth a bit open while his eyes are half-closed, and all in all looking like he's about to either pass out or fall asleep on the spot.

"Peeta," I say, finding my voice sounding surprisingly similar to my mother's when she's caring for a patient, a calmness and compassion that doesn't otherwise come natural to me. "Are you sure you shouldn't go home? Let your mother tuck you into bed, or something?"

"And leave you high and dry?"

"It's not bailing on me if you're this sick."

"It sounds and looks far worse than it is," he claims. "Katniss, I'm fine. We've only got today to get all of this done; I'd rather we finish on the allocated school hours than pick it up on our off-hours later this week."

"I can finish it," I say. "It's not a lot of work. You should be in bed, recuperating."

"What?" He gives me a look of complete disbelief, mixed with a dose of irritation. "Not a chance. I won't allow you to do all the work! And don't even try to argue that point, because we both know you would never allow me to do it if the roles were reversed."

"Except I kind of did already. You did the lions' share of the grid presentation. It's only fair for me to make up for it now."

"Yeah, nice try," he scoffs, taking a couple of deep sips from his mug. When he sets it down it sounds like it's empty. "I'm not unloading all of this onto you."

I bite my lower lip, struggling with myself on the issue of whether or not to bring him to my home, and to my mother. It feels like the right thing to do, but it also feels… I don't know, I can't put precise words to it, but I suppose I feel nervous to suggest it to him. Most people would probably find it very odd for their project partner to bring them home during school hours, but most people don't have healers for mothers. I go back and forth over it for several minutes, eyeing Peeta on the sly. He keeps snivelling, keeps cringing slightly every time he swallows, keeps looking like he has trouble focusing and would like nothing more than to nap for the next several hours. I make up my mind. We're hardly getting any work done at all right now, and we will no doubt be more efficient with him resting on the couch while my mother gets him some medication. But I'm too bashful to say it outright, so I find another way.

"Peeta… I just got an idea. Something that would work really well with this week's assignment."

"Okay?" he says, looking at me through heavy, weary eyes.

"We'll have to go on another field trip." I begin collecting my things in a rapid pace, as if the quicker we get this underway the better my resolve will hold out.

Peeta seems to mull this over and contemplate whether or not he has the energy for it, but then he sighs and begins packing up his things as well.

"Alright, then. Where are we going?"

"I'll show you," I reply, trying to avoid a direct answer to the question. He needs to be in his outerwear and out the door before he finds out and can muster the energy to object. Especially if he begins to object because he's worried he'll be a bother.

He sighs, hides a yawn behind his closed fist, but dutifully packs his things, even allowing me to help him, which is fortunate, as otherwise it might have taken all hour with him in his current condition. I smile encouragingly at him while I help him out, but he doesn't seem to notice. When he rises from his chair his movements are much slower than normal and I momentarily question my decision, wondering if I might just be depleting his energy resources further by this idea.

* * *

It's not until we've reached the part of the district where the town gives way to the Seam that Peeta reacts, or even notices the general direction we're going in. He's spent the entire walk up to that point in silence, staring unseeingly at the ground a meter or two ahead of him, his cheeks flush with both cold and fever, if such a thing is possible, and his hands tightly crossed over his chest in an attempt to generate some measure of warmth. It's not actually all that cold outside, not compared to how winter has been so far, but ten degrees below freezing is still cold enough when your body is busy trying to elevate its core temperature to kill whatever affliction is disturbing it. I've stayed silence as well, unbothered by the quiet between us, and figuring he probably doesn't feel like making small-talk right now.

I've been figuring that he might not be completely happy about me dragging him back to my house like this, but I'm unprepared for the look of near horror on his face as he realizes where we're going and stops dead in his tracks, fervently shaking his head.

"No… No, no, no. Katniss you're not taking me where I think you're taking me?"

I have absolutely zero intention of playing ignorant, or of arguing with him on this subject. He needs proper rest and whatever medicine my mother can give him if we are to be able to complete our coursework for this week. He looked like he was about ready to pass out in his chair back in the assembly room and that would do neither one of us any favours.

"Since you didn't want to go home, you're coming to my home," I tell him simply. "You need to be lying on a couch under a heap of blankets."

"Katniss I'm  _really_  not comfortable with this," he says, still shaking his head, but his eyes now pleading a bit.

"There's nothing to feel uncomfortable about. Have you forgotten that my mother is a healer? And before you even get started down that path, this is as much for my benefit as it is for yours. If you won't let me do the brunt of the work then the next best thing is to have you as comfortable as possible, allowing you to be as efficient as possible." He scowls deeply. I tilt my head a bit and try a different approach, softening my voice as much as I dare to. "Do you want to turn back? We'll lose an awful lot of time."

He looks over his shoulder, taking a minute to think it over. When he turns his head back to look at me he looks exhausted and defeated, sighing heavily. We're much closer to my house than we are to school, and he knows it. He begins to walk, the first few steps reluctant but then he picks up his pace as if wanting to get indoors as soon as possible.

"I  _really_  don't like you right now," he sighs as he passes me.

"Is that any way to talk to a person doing you a favour?" I ask, partially teasing him.

He mutters something under his breath that I can't make out, but if his tone is anything to go by it certainly isn't flattering. I choose not to comment. He mutters something else a moment later, the only word I'm able to make out being 'humiliated', but I decide to let that one slide as well. I'm discouraged at the thought that humiliation might be what he feels over this, but if our roles were reversed I know there's nothing he would be able to say that would make me feel any differently about it. It honestly never crossed my mind that  _that_  might be his reaction. I'm doing this to help him, to help us both, really. There's nothing shameful about being sick, nor about seeking help from a healer. The fact that the healer in question is my mother and that I am the one making the decision for him to come see her shouldn't be that horrible.

We fall into silence once more, reaching my house within minutes. I climb the porch steps and put my hand on the doorknob, turning my head to find that Peeta has stopped at the foot of the steps. He looks around uncomfortably, visibly shaking by now, his teeth clattering and his hands rubbing his upper arms. Our eyes meet and his hesitation is plainly visible.

"You know, maybe…" he begins tentatively, his voice trembling from his body's attempts at keeping warm.

"Peeta, you're freezing," I softly point out. "Wouldn't you rather come inside with me, and get warm? You came all the way here with me, after all."

He sighs heavily but begins to walk up the porch steps. I open the front door, allowing him to walk inside the instant he reaches the porch, and I quickly follow him inside and close the door firmly to avoid too much of the outdoor cold to get inside. The house isn't terribly warm, but it's above twenty degrees at least, and far more comfortable. Peeta lets his backpack drop to the ground with a loud thud, just as my mother's voice comes to us from the kitchen.

"Katniss? Is that you? Home from school already?" She appears in the doorway, confusion and a touch of worry written on her face, and when she sees us she looks even more confused at the company I brought, yet I also see her healer persona surface the instant she lays eyes on Peeta, the shape he's in telling her enough, even if not all.

"He's got the flu," I say anyway.

"It's just a cold," replies Peeta in his hoarse, stuffy voice, supporting himself by pressing one hand against the wall while he uses the other to remove his shoes. "I'm fine, Mrs. Everdeen. Your daughter kind-of kidnapped me because she – for some reason – thought I would have keeled over dead if I had to sit in a chair for a full hour."

By the time he's finished speaking she's already walked up to us, her analytical mind picking up on every piece of information his appearance can give her. The back of her hand comes to rest against his forehead, and her own brow furrows. Her hands then move to his cheeks and further down to his throat, Peeta's chin automatically tilting upward as she begins to examine his glands. The side-eye he gives me would be quite comical under different circumstances.

"He needs to be lying down, preferably drinking whatever you've got to bring down a fever and soothe a sore throat." One corner of my mouth turns upward and I half-smirk at Peeta while removing my own outerwear. "Except sleep syrup. I need him awake and preferably lucid."

"Your throat is sore, too?" she asks him.

"Yeah," he croaks.

"For how many days now?"

"This is the third. And I've already had willow bark tea for the fever. It's not that bad."

"Okay. Why don't you go with Katniss to the living room? She'll get you settled in and I'll get you something more for that fever and for your throat. Any other symptoms? Ear aches?"

"No," he claims.

"Okay," she murmurs under her breath. "Katniss?"

I nod at her unspoken command, pressing the palm of my hand to Peeta's back to herd him towards the sitting room. He knows the way already and defiantly picks up his pace enough so that he's walking ahead of me without the two of us touching. But when he reaches the couch he stops, a look of uncertainty on his face.

"Sit down," I urge. "I'll go get our backpacks." He makes a move to go past the couch and I add a warning to my tone. "And  _not_  on the floor. The couch won't bite, although your pig-headedness seems to have grown some teeth." He makes a face at me and even sticks out his tongue in a mock-taunting move – at least I  _think_  it's mock – and at the last second I resist the impulse to blow him an equally taunting air kiss in response. He sits, and I give him a prompting look, my eyebrows raised. "Now lie down."

"I'm starting to feel like a dog you're training," he says drolly. "Sit. Lie down. Speak."

" _Don't_  speak. No more than necessary. Your voice will have given out entirely by the end of the day if you're not careful."

"Here's hoping the same fate will befall my brother," he sighs, not specifying which brother. "A few days of peace and quiet at home would do me good."

"Seriously, less with the talking and more with the lying down. You have three seconds, or I'll lift your legs up myself."

"You're out of your mind," he sighs, glaring at me while slowly lifting his feet up on the couch. He curls his legs, making sure to take up as little space on the couch as possible.

"Good boy," I say, mimicking the tone peacekeepers use to praise their canines.

"Bad girl," he throws back, breaking into a coughing fit.

I go back to the hall and find our backpacks where we left them, right by the front door. I bend down and grab Peeta's, but I'm not prepared for the sheer weight of it when I try lifting it. A grunt escapes me and I nearly fall forward thanks to the surprise. It must weigh well over ten kilos! And he carted that thing all the way over here in his current condition? Wrestlers must be half-insane, I decide, making a face as I grab hold of it again and lift it, putting it on to make it easier to carry. Something that feels like the back of a book cuts into my back, making me cringe. Carrying my own, considerably lighter, pack in one hand I hurry back to the sitting room, eager to take the damn heavy thing off.

"What do you even  _have_  in this thing?" I complain as I walk into the room. "One of your brothers?"

I notice Prim has found her way into the room, no doubt made curious by me being home early and speaking to someone whose voice I doubt she'd be immediately able to place. Peeta has a look of utterly exasperated resignation on his face as she drapes a worn blanket over him, the one usually lying on the back of the couch. Just like Mother, she's got her nursing look about her, though shyness prevents her from doing what our mother did and actually touching him to get a better understanding of the nature of his illness.

I shimmy out of Peeta's backpack, letting it drop with a thud much like he did a few minutes ago, and he twists around to start unpacking it.

"This would be much easier if I wasn't  _lying down_ ," he croaks at me, giving me a pointed look. It does look a bit uncomfortable, but I ignore him nonetheless and instead talk to my sister.

"That blanket is too thin and worn-out to be of much use to anyone. Go get my comforter, would you?"

She snaps her fingers, getting and idea.

"The blanket on Mother's bed!" she exclaims.

"I had completely forgotten about that," I admit.

"I'll be right back!"

"So this is what it feels like to have the entire trio of Everdeen healers descend upon you at once," says Peeta, finding a handkerchief in his backpack and blowing his nose on it. "It's strangely overwhelming."

"I'm not a healer," I object, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. I sit cross-legged, the rug making it at least a little more comfortable than sitting directly on the floor. I unzip my backpack and begin to unpack it.

"Could have fooled me," he says.

I blush, but I'm saved from commenting by my mother entering, carrying a tray with a mug full of steaming hot tea, a much smaller mug containing one of her ill-tasting remedies, and a spoon of what looks like some form of lotion. There's also a tall glass of water, which doesn't surprise me since she always insists we stay hydrated when we're feverish. She sets it all down in front of Peeta, who has – out of sheer politeness, no doubt – shoved his books aside to make room for it.

"The tea is for your fever," she instructs. "The brew in the other mug is for your throat. The ointment is to rub under your nose, so it doesn't get soars when you have to blow your nose a lot." She places the back of her hand against his brow again for a split second, as if expecting his fever to have begun to go down just from looking at the tea. "And be sure to drink lots of water. You'll be sweating a lot once that fever starts to go down."

"That all paints me as quite the attractive guy," jokes Peeta half-heartedly. He manages a genuine smile at her, though. "Thank you, Mrs. Everdeen. I appreciate it."

"Think nothing of it." She looks up when she hears my sister walking in. "Oh good, Prim is here with another blanket."

"All of this really isn't necessary," protests Peeta, to no avail whatsoever.

"It's just a blanket," says Prim innocently, draping it over him.

"Use your voice sparingly, if you can," instructs Mother on her way back towards the kitchen. I give Peeta an amused, slightly triumphant look while I try to hide a chuckle. "I'll be back to check on you both in a bit."

"Really, none of you should be going to this much trouble," Peeta tries again.

"So what are you guys working on right now?" asks Prim, ignoring his comment entirely. Her hands rest on the back of the couch and she's slightly leaned forward, trying to get some clues from Peeta's text- and notebooks.

"Oh, this week we're naming our new-born twins!" I say in the tone of one reading a fairy-tale aloud to a group of children. "We also get to make our one-billionth budget and saddle you as our baby-sitter for the next ten-or-so years."

"Great!" grins Prim, sounding actually excited about the prospect.

"I'm holding you to that!" says Peeta, his left index finger raised. He grabs the glass of water and pours as much into the tea as will go in before it runs over. "Katniss, write it down, would you?"

"You can thank me by naming one of the twins after me," Prim coyly suggests.

"I would be glad to, little duck, but they're both boys," I answer. I actually do put her down as our future baby-sitter, saving us the time of coming up with a different answer. Maybe we can invent a job for her in our made-up future, in which she takes care of other people's children when they are at work. That's the sort of thing our teachers seem to like – our  _creativity_.

"Well if you ever do have a girl during your little project, I demand to have her named for me," she says. Peeta meanwhile picks up the mug with Mother's concoction and swallows it in one large gulp, frowning slightly but otherwise not betraying how fowl it actually tastes. Prim, as familiar with its taste as I am, raises an eyebrow at me and gives me a look that tells me she's impressed. "Anyway, I have my own homework to do. I'll see you both later."

"Bye, sis," I say, and Peeta waves a hand at her. Once she's gone I decide it's time to get down to business for real. "Okay, where are you on your end of the budget?"

"Uhm… give me a few minutes."

"Okay," I nod. "I'm all done on my part, so I'll just move on to writing something short but succinct about how Primrose Everdeen is our full-time baby-sitter."

We settle in to a comfortable silence as we get back to the school work. I know this foray to the Seam has cost us about twenty minutes, but I'm confident we will make that time back now that my partner is tucked in and as comfortable as possible, and hopefully with a lower body temperature in a little while. Besides, we can continue to work here until we're finished with this week's assignment. No need to make further study plans when we're already in one of our respective homes.

After about fifteen minutes or so Peeta hands me his part of the budget. I nod and start to quickly compile it with mine to make a completed version, which he lets me do without protest. It takes me a couple of minutes and when I look up at him he has taken a pause, rather than start working on something else. His eyes slowly flutter close, and stay closed for a few seconds. He opens them while drawing a deep breath and then he notices me watching him and he cringes. I can't tell if he's blushing or if it's just his temperature making his cheeks have that red hue but the smile on his face is a touch awkward and a lot rueful as he scratches the back of his head and tries to apologise to me.

"I'm sorry Katniss, I wasn't about to fall asleep or anything, I swear. I was just…"

"Tired, because you're sick? I believe we've already established those things." I shift my weight a little, rocking from one side to the other. "You don't have to apologise for feeling tired. It's no wonder."

"Doesn't mean it isn't rude." His eyes go to the old grandfather clock on the wall between my bedroom and Mother's. "Honestly I feel like such an uncouth sad-sack. You bring me to your home, your mother tries to help me feel better, even your sister pampers me." He takes his eyes off the clock and grabs the mug, taking a long sip. "You've all treated me like I'm a close friend of the family, and I'm practically a stranger to your mother and Prim. And here I am, yawning and closing my eyes like I'm considering taking a nap."

"We don't think you're rude, uncouth, pathetic or anything other remotely related to those words," I insist. "I'm glad you came with me, even though you wanted to go back to school."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" he asks, holding the mug with both hands and looking at me with a touch of bewilderment. As if he can't comprehend that someone would want to make sure he was doing as well as possible under the circumstances.

"Because you're my project partner," is my first answer, the spontaneous yet carefully considered answer. When I say the words, though, I can hear how stupid it really sounds, and how ingenuine. It's not par the course of social interaction to bring a classmate – especially one of the opposite sex – to your home to take care of him when they're sick. I can tell from Peeta's sceptic look that he doesn't truly believe it either, but he seems resigned to the answer, or rather to not getting a better, more truthful one. "Because I care about you."

He draws another deep breath through his mouth, almost like a gasp, yet it isn't one. His eyes widen just a bit before turning downward. I feel myself blushing, bashful over what I just admitted to him, yet at the same time his reaction touches something inside me. Has he never had someone in his life, a friend, who would look out for him when he feels under the weather? Is that that big of a deal for him? If it is it makes me sad, because he should have a whole group of friends who would look after him when he needed it. He  _has_  a whole group of friends, but do they truly not care that much about him?

Or is his reaction a sign that I spoke inappropriately? Maybe a girl who has a boyfriend shouldn't say such a thing to a boy who practically has a girlfriend? My blush deepens and I bite my bottom lip, wondering if I should backtrack or if I should own what I just said, make it feel like the most natural thing in the world for somebody to say?

However, Peeta speaks before I do.

"Thanks," he simply says.

"There's no need," I insist softly. I lean forward a bit and look deeply into his eyes, having decided that option number two was the better one. Own it. "You and I have been working closely for four, nearly five, months. We've started to get to know each other." I turn my eyes downward, to my feet, battling with myself over whether or not I should say this. I wasn't planning to, ever… But maybe now is the time to bring up the time he gave me those loaves of bread and saved my life? I think about it for what feels like far too long, finally landing on the conclusion that no, I shouldn't bring it up. He probably doesn't remember. And I don't want him to think I'm only being nice to him because I feel beholden. I look back up at him again, and I find that he's sat himself up a touch, propped up on his left arm, mug in the right hand. He no longer seems like he could use a nap right this moment, instead he looks focused, interested. "I guess you can say we are friends, you and me. And that means that we look after one another. Right? Like friends are supposed to do."

I don't put the rest of that thought to words, because the truth is that it scares me. We look after one another because we both understand that without people helping out other people we can never stand a chance. Whether that other person is a complete stranger or an acquaintance or a friend or part of your family. Somewhere there exists a fine line between charity and necessity, of helping somebody because it's the right thing to do and helping somebody out of pity. And I think that thought scares me because I have a gnarling suspicion that this is something Peeta understands as well as I do, but Gale might not. Even though Peeta is merchant and Gale and I are both Seam.

"I suppose I owe you one, then," he says after a moment's pause.

"What?" I blush again, once more wondering if I should mention the reason why he'll never owe me anything, ever. But I can't bring myself to do it. "That isn't necessary."

"Bringing me to your home and giving me the full Everdeen cold treatment goes beyond what friends are expected to do," he says, dead serious. He pauses to cough and I think to myself that him being here on my couch under a couple of blankets is merely a fraction of the kindness he showed me that day. "You're a really great person, Katniss. Anyone you love, consider a friend or feel you want to help is a very,  _very_  lucky person. You really have a good heart."

"As do you."

Neither one of us seems to know what to say after that. Peeta cringes and rubs the back of his neck, glancing over at the clock again briefly.

"You're not going to get into trouble with Gale over this, I hope?" he says, the last word hardly audible. He clears his throat to get rid of the phlegm on his vocal cords. "He won't get the wrong idea, I mean?"

"Gale will be fine." It feels odd hearing Gale's name mentioned all of a sudden, but I appreciate his concern nonetheless. I should probably show him the same courtesy. "And you… Will you get into trouble with…?"

"No," he says simply. He lies back down, bending his knees, and grabs his notepad, propping it up against his thighs. "So… Any ideas for baby names?"

"You're thinking of baby names?" says my mother, walking in with the kettle. She seems rather perturbed and I roll my eyes. Now the moment is  _definitely_  over.

"Yes, Mother. In the world of our project our firstborn son has just been granted the gift of twin baby brothers. And they expect us to name the things."

"That seems odd," says Mother mildly as she pours more tea into Peeta's mug. "What educational purpose does that serve?"

"Who knows at this point?" I sigh. I shift so that I'm sitting on my knees, making it easier for me to reach the coffee table to write. "In all honesty, I was hoping for one boy and one girl. Then we could have picked a unisex name and used it for them both. That would have been such a hoot!"

"Katniss, I do hope you take your school work more seriously," my mother chastises me. I scowl, not liking being reprimanded in front of my project partner.

"It was just a joke," I say sourly.

"Is that so?" says Mother dryly, giving me a look.

Peeta doesn't participate in the conversation. He's eyeing the grandfather clock with a furrowed brow, his fingers combing through his beard absentmindedly. My scowl deepens – what is his thing with the clock? It's old and worn and not at all pretty, in fact I find it rather gaudy, but so what? Just because the wood has scrapes and missing chips and the glass covering the face is half transparent, half a hue Prim refers to as 'bile green', with spots and discolouring from coal dust that we've never managed to clean off of it, that doesn't mean it's bad enough to deserve  _that_  much scrutiny. I'm sure he's far too polite to comment on it but there's no denying that I am inferior to him when it comes to the state of my home and its furniture. It's a big, red, flashing sign that screams that we have less money than he does, in effect our poverty surrounding us wherever you look. And it's a reminder that in real life somebody like Peeta and somebody like I never could end up marrying one another. Who in their right mind would like to give up the comparatively safe and cushioned milieu of a home in town in order to live in a house like this? When my parents got married my mother had never seen the inside of a Seam house before. I've wondered what kind of a shock she got when she first set foot inside her new home. If Peeta can't even come to terms with a grandfather clock, my mother must have been horrified.

"The clock isn't  _that_ ugly," I comment, trying my best to make it sound like I'm teasing – mostly so that my mother won't chastise me again. She doesn't react to my comment, preoccupied with cleaning up various dishes from the coffee table.

"… What?" he says after a second, casting me a very quick look. He sits up and leans a little bit forward. "No, the clock is lovely, it's just… I'm trying to see what time it is." He leans a bit further forward and squints, snivelling as he does. "We ought to get a move on with this, or we won't be finished in time. It's cutting it uncomfortably close as it is. I'm trying to… I can't really…" He tilts his head as he studies the clock. "I need to figure out when I have to leave in order to make it back in time for practice."

"I can help you out with that," I offer, my eyes turning back to my notebook.

"Yeah?" he says hopefully, finally ceasing to look at the clock and instead turning his eyes to me and leaning back down on the couch.

"Uh-huh. You'd need to leave in roughly seven days and seventeen minutes." He grunts in protest and I look up at him through my bangs, my eyes dead serious. "I mean it, Peeta. You can't go to practice today."

"Katniss-"

"I  _mean it_ , Peeta." I turn to my mother. "Back me up, here, Mother."

"Katniss, sweetheart, it's not for us to decide whether he-"

"He's talking about  _wrestling_  practice. In less than an hour."

That got her attention. She immediately looks at Peeta with a stern, yet motherly look, and her voice is equally a combination of sternness and motherliness.

"Katniss is right, Peeta. Under no circumstances can you go to wrestling practice in your current condition. I'm sorry, dear, but it's out of the question." She walks up to him, balancing the trey with dishes on one hand. She again places the back of her other hand against his forehead and her brow furrows with mild concern. "You're still running a fever, even if I'd reckon your temperature has gone down. Stay here and finish your school work with Katniss, then go straight home. Your parents wouldn't want you to go to practice when you're sick."

With that final, rather unhelpful line she walks back into the kitchen, clearly considering the matter settled. Peeta looks exhausted and quite a bit irritated with me again. He pulls up the blankets all the way to his chin and turns to his side, pulling his knees up to his chest as far as is possible on the narrow couch. It's an oxymoronic display, in part stern resolution and irritation with us for trying to dictate what he can and cannot do, in part a display of illness that speaks for itself. The red, runny nose, the glossy eyes, the sheen of sweat along his hairline and his cheeks, still flushed with fever. It's hard not to admire the determination but that doesn't mean he's not being foolhardy.

"Look, I appreciate the concern," he says, though his tone suggests he's not being the least bit truthful. "But I  _have_  to go to practice."

"Except you don't," I reply, eyeing the budget one last time to make sure it holds up.

"I really do," he argues. "The big match is in seven weeks, my  _last_  match, possibly forever, and I need every minute of practice that I can get."

"Except you don't."

"Are you listening to me?" he says sternly, though his words are made significantly less impactful because of how his stuffy nose is making him sound congested. "You're not being cute. I have to be at practice, and that's just that!"

"Except you don't!"

" _Katniss_!" he almost barks, his voice deepening in a way I haven't heard before.

"You couldn't even walk over here without stopping to cough," I point out with a frustrated sigh, setting my pencil down and giving him a look. "Your nose is running every two and a half minutes. Your throat is sore, you've had a fever all day and you nearly fell asleep on my couch not five minutes ago!" I soften my tone. "Peeta… It's really not good for you to strain yourself like that when you're not well. What if you bring about a pneumonia? How long before you'll be able to bring your A-game to practice, then?" I choose not to mention the fact that pneumonia can be deadly in a district like ours, with no access to things like advanced antibiotics.

"I'll take my chances," he insists, speaking calmly and slowly but very firmly. "I  _cannot_  miss practice even this once. I can't even risk being five minutes  _late_!"

"Well we're not letting you out of the house until after practice is over, so deal with it," I say, picking the pencil back up and eyeing the list of assignments for this week. I intend to start working on the next part, but not until Peeta has accepted that he won't get his will on this matter. "Do you need me to bring Prim out here so that she too can tell you why it's a terrible idea for you to go?"

"It's not up to anybody named Everdeen to decide," he points out. He's got a point, and yet he says it with enough gentleness that it doesn't come off as a harsh accusation. "Listen, winning that competition… it's a big deal for me. Ryean always beat me before, I didn't get to win until last year. This year is my last time, in effect the end of my wrestling days, and I've been working so hard for this that second place would be a bitter pill to swallow. If I should lose on my own merit, or because somebody else is better than I am then that is something I can accept. But if I fail because I didn't show up for practice… If I fail because I didn't do the work…"

"First of all, Peeta, you are without a doubt the finest wrestler in the entire school," I say softly, once more putting aside my pencil and looking at him. For all I know that's a lie; the things I know about wrestling can be compared to the things a peacekeeper knows about working in the mines. My feet are beginning to fall asleep so I make the decision to get up from my spot on the floor and walk over to the couch, sitting down on the other end. "Second… I don't think you'll improve your chances of winning by making yourself even sicker, ending up with several weeks of recuperation. And third… Well, I told you just now. I care about you. Did you really think I'd bring you all the way here and then just not care if you decided to do something as foolhardy as go to wrestling practice?" For maybe half a minute there's silence between us. Peeta looks like he's admitting defeat, but not liking it very much. "And fourth, by the way, you're exhausted to the point of almost falling asleep on my couch.  _Prim_  could win over you in a wrestling match in the condition you're in."

"Alright, alright," he says, holding up his hands in surrender. "I yield. But only on the condition that we both stop talking about everything else under the sun, and actually focus on the job at hand! If I'm staying here instead of going to practice, I want our work handed in tomorrow."

"The budget is completed. Prim is officially our nanny, and thanks to the magic of my pencil she is also the nanny of about six other families nearby. All that's left is to write something brief about how we plan to make the logistics of our new family situation work, and of course  _naming_  the little annoyances." I get on my feet and move back to where I was sitting before, turning a page in my notebook. "I'll get started on the logistics thing and you, since you were the one who named the first kid, can start mulling over baby names."

"I thought I gave you that task last week."

"Oh, but you are so much better at it than me," I say in a mock-emphatic tone. "Now, start thinking." I grab my pencil sharpener, giving him a teasing smirk. "I bet you anything that I will have written an entire page before you've come up with those names."

"And I thought  _I_  was the competitive one," he smirks. "Didn't you just say, like five seconds ago, that I was better at baby-naming than you?"

"As long as you take less than a week, that will still be true." I finish sharpening my pencil and am just about to start writing when I look up at him once more. "Oh! And make them match. Or rhyme. Something obnoxiously twin-appropriate."

"Oh, Katniss, I hope you never have twins," he sighs, grabbing his handkerchief to wipe his nose.

"Thank you," I say sweetly and genuinely.

He ignores the comment and shifts to lie on his back, bending his knees and propping his notebook against his thighs. Neither of us speaks for a good while, even though I wish I could ask for his help about three dozen times. I can think of things to write easily enough but as always I know he would be a lot more eloquent in putting it in writing. But I'm determined not to bother him, so I soldier on and little by little piece together an account of how we would go by our daily lives with a toddler and two infants. I try to think back to how things were when Prim was a baby, but naturally I can't remember anything about how my parents went about it, so instead I try to remember what I can about Hazelle Hawthorne and how she took care of Posy when she was a baby. Hazelle at that point had a baby, two children under the age of ten and a teenager, as well as a dead husband. If she could manage, Peeta and I certainly would be able to, or we'd have to feel really ashamed of ourselves.

When I'm done I pull the page from my notebook and put it in the envelope together with everything else. I look at Peeta, my mouth half-open to ask him what our twins' names are, only to realize he's fallen asleep. Silently I rise to my feet and walk over to him, gently lifting the notebook from his lap. I'm not surprised to find that even though this part of the assignment doesn't actually matter and we could just pick the first two male names that come to mind, he has treated the task with the kind of diligence he applies to most things. There's a whole list of name suggestions, all pertaining to wildlife or hunting, either to go with Hunter or just because he thought I would appreciate it.

Smiling softly I leave him where he is and walk to my bedroom, where Prim is sprawled on the bed, her nose in a chemistry textbook. She looks up when I enter and move to the side so that I can sit down beside her, my back leaned against the headboard.

"Did Peeta go home?" she asks.

"No. Fell asleep."

She smiles, her expression suggesting she finds this endearing.

"That's nice. I'm glad he feels comfortable enough here to do that."

"I'm not so sure it's about feeling  _comfortable_ , as much as it is the flu," I argue.

"Yeah, but he could have gone home when he started feeling sleepy."

"Or not. I think whatever bug he has is eating his brain. Idiot was all set to go to wrestling practice."

"What have you got there?" she asks, nodding to the notebook.

"I put him in charge of picking baby names. He made a list… ignoring my request to have the names rhyme or otherwise go ridiculously well together. A wise decision, no doubt. In real life, I imagine Peeta will be far more apt at picking baby names than I could ever be."

"Can I see?"

She scoots up and then twists around on her back. She sits up and comes to sit right beside me, leaning in to read the names jotted down in his nice handwriting.

"He was the one who named the first kid they gave us," I explain to her. "He chose the name Hunter. I guess he thought these names would go well with that…"

"Yeah…" she says, eyeing the list. "Deke, Drake, Covert, Jay, Wren…" she reads aloud. She points to a name somewhere in the middle of the list. "Brace. That one actually works for a twin."

"Too bad that only covers  _one_  of the babies, though."

"I like Fox," she adds, pointing to another name. "That's cute."

I chuckle softly.

"I suppose it is."

"He really didn't come up with  _any_  suggestions that would go with his family traditions?" she questions. "They would be Mellarks, after all."

"No. If he picked a twin theme, it was clearly wild-life and hunting."

"Then let's think of some baking names, then," she suggests, sounding excited at the prospect. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"I can't think of a single baking-related name," I scowl. I have by now read the list to its end and come to the conclusion that while the first two thirds were serious suggestions he clearly got either bored or frustrated towards the end. There's no way Mallard Mellark would be a serious suggestion. If it is, that flu is hitting him worse than I thought.

"Come on, it will be fun!" smiles Prim, nudging me with her shoulder. "For starters, do you know his brothers' names?"

"I honestly don't know how attached he is to his brothers," I say, still scowling. "He might not want to name even fictional babies after them."

"No, Katniss, I meant so that we  _don't_  pick those names," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Oh. Well the eldest is Scotti and the younger is Ryean."

"Okay. Now let me think… and  _you_  have to be thinking, too."

"Alright, alright," I say, almost smiling at her excitement over this.

"Yay!" she grins, clapping her hands with enthusiasm, possibly stemming from being able to use this as an excuse not to study chemistry for a little while.

We spend a good thirty minutes trying to think of names that a member of the Mellark family might give their sons in real life, though unsurprisingly the vast majority of suggestions come from Prim. In the end we've settled on two names – Bran and Barley – and I steal a blank sheet from Peeta's notebook and write the names down, all in all about three paragraphs about those being the names we chose and why. The last part naturally leaves my sister out and gives credit to Peeta, which I know Prim doesn't mind. When I'm finished a memory springs to mind, making me smile.

"While we were working on the part of the project that was all about us having our first baby, Peeta had a… project name, if you will, for the kid." I laugh fondly at the memory. "He named the baby Cookie Crisp… and at one point claimed it was a  _boy's_  name."

"Sounds to me like you guys have a good time working together," observes Prim softly.

"We do…" I admit. "To an extent." I clear my throat and get up off the bed, reaching over to grab the chemistry book and drop it on her lap. "Thank you for your help, little duck! But it's time for you to study chemistry, and for me to go wake Bran and Barley's father and send him home. If he stays much longer he'll probably be late for supper."

"Don't talk about supper," groans Prim. "I'm hungry!"

Walking quietly back out into the sitting room I find Peeta still asleep, and I almost feel bad waking him up. But what I told Prim was true – if he stays much longer he might be late for supper, and I don't want him getting into any trouble with his mother. He would have to explain where he's been and who knows if she might take offense to another woman looking after her son while he's sick. She doesn't know my mother, but she might be angry nonetheless.

Quietly I put the last paper in the envelope. I then kneel and begin to slowly and carefully pack up Peeta's things, hoping not to wake him until I'm done, thereby giving him at least a few more minutes of sleep. It still doesn't take long, and I rise to my feet and walk around the couch, leaning against its back and watching him where he lies. His cheeks look less rosy but he's sweating more, several curls of hair plastered against his brow. Surprisingly he doesn't snore, even though his nose is so congested, though that could be because his mouth is open and he's mainly breathing that way. I study him for several minutes, feeling oddly nurturing towards him right now. No doubt because this is one medical condition that doesn't frighten me so much, and he has been quite the sad sight to see today, even though he's valiantly struggled to seem unaffected. I hope Mr. Mellark will allow him to stay home from school tomorrow. He could use a couple of days' rest.

I look over at the grandfather clock. I can't really delay any longer. He can go back to sleep in his own bed once he's had some supper. I reach out my hand and gently brush his sweaty brow, making him stir a little but he doesn't wake up. So I move my hand to his shoulder instead, giving him a mild shrug.

"Peeta," I say gently. "Wake up, Peeta."

He opens his eyes and squints up at me, for a moment looking entirely bewildered as to where he is and what is going on. Then realization dawns on him and he sits up straight, almost knocking my hand in the process. He looks at the clock but can't see what it says, turning to me with embarrassment and worry.

"Oh goodness! Did I fall asleep? I'm so sorry, Katniss. How long was I out? Oh my  _God_ , this is embarrassing."

"Never mind," I assure him calmly. "Knowing my mother it was something in her brew that made you sleepy." That's a lie, but it seems to make him feel a little bit better. "You've been asleep for a little bit, but you probably ought to get going now, or your parents will wonder where you are."

"I've been napping for  _that_  long?"

"I took the liberty of packing your things," I say, deciding to play it as casual as possible to hopefully make him feel less embarrassed. I walk back around the couch and give the far too heavy backpack a shove with my foot. "I hope you don't mind. I wanted to let you sleep for as long as possible."

"God, I'm never going to be able to show my face to you, or anyone else in your family, ever again," he complains, sitting up but looking really groggy as he does, as if he sat too fast and his blood pressure dropped.

"Don't be silly," I say in what I hope is a reassuring voice. I throw in another lie to hopefully make him feel more at ease "Mother and Prim don't know you slept for a bit. Only I do. But I assure you, neither one of us would judge you for it."

"The Everdeen healers, huh?" he says, giving me an almost shy smile, so full of bashful charm that I feel momentarily stunned. He stands up, his fingers absentmindedly pulling on his beard as he looks around to get his bearings and figure out where his backpack is. When he sees it he bends down and picks it up with ease, carrying it over one shoulder as if it hardly weighed a thing.

"At least we got everything done today," I say encouragingly, picking up the envelope and waving it a little. "I'll hand it in tomorrow morning. And no, I won't let you do it, because I'll be really angry if I see you at school tomorrow. I'll grab you by your beard and drag you to the bakery at first recess and tell your mother you passed out or something."

"Okay, okay," he says, chuckling lightly and raising both hands. "You win, healer Everdeen." Then he frowns. "But we're not finished, though. I didn't actually pick any names."

"I did," I inform him. "Which means I definitely won the bet."

He chuckles again and starts heading for the door. While he's putting his outerwear on my mother hears us and comes up to check on him. I hold my breath, waiting to see if she's going to say anything about him napping on our couch. She might not even have seen him, and I know she would approve of him getting that rest, but it would catch me in a lie and I would be more than a little bit embarrassed. But she says nothing about it, merely checking his temperature again and being satisfied with the results of her concoctions. He thanks her and they exchange some polite phrases I'm not really familiar with, but I conclude are things merchants say to one another. Sometimes I forget my mother's heritage, having never seen her in her original environment, but whenever Peeta is around she seems to remember it very well herself.

Peeta leaves and once I've closed the door I feel my mother's soft hand land on my shoulder, just by my neck, and massage it gently.

"You were right to bring him here," she tells me. "If he's stubborn enough to go to school again tomorrow, bring him back."

"I will," I nod, though not at all convinced that I would. He would certainly not agree to being here without me, while I went back to school.

I give my mother an insincere smile and walk to the kitchen to see what we can make for supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and forth on Peeta's condition for a moment, regarding how serious it would be. Katniss diagnoses it as the flu, but it's actually "just" a bad cold. My guess is that the flu would probably be far more dangerous than his condition is treated as, given the limited means of medical intervention in a district like 12. No doubt people would be dying of the flu, pneumonia and diseases like that. Possibly of tonsillitis, too, at least in childhood or old age, although I've been unfortunate enough to suffer through that particular ailment myself a few times during childhood with no antibiotics, so Peeta should have been able to survive that, too. Speaking of antibiotics, Katniss at one point makes a reference to "advanced" antibioics - a nod on my part to the rather frightening fact that in the rate we're going with overperscribing that particular medication, scientists predict that in about a hundred years our current antibiotics will be ineffective due to the development of multi-resistant bacteria. Whatever year this story takes place in according to our reckoning, they will no doubt have problems along those lines.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you thought of the chapter! I promise to try and have a new, far more plot-advancing chapter, up before November comes around.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, life keeps harassing me this year, and this story keeps having to pay the price. I got another chapter finished, though, at last - and if I'm fortunate I might be able to finish another one any day now. Here's hoping.
> 
> I'm a bit scatterbrained at present, so there might be grammatical errors or other similar things. If you find any, please let me know, so that I can fix it. Thnx! =)

Peeta stays home from school for three days. Not quite enough, in my opinion, but at least better than nothing. We run into each other a few minutes before our first Friday morning class, his first morning back. We nearly walk right into each other, just as he's closing his locker and I'm zig-zagging between classmates to get to through to class. He looks better than he did on Monday, no cheeks flushed with fever, no glossy eyes, but his nose is still red, and he's got a handkerchief in his left hand. When he sees me he grins and raises both hands.

"Please don't kidnap me," he says, his voice still hoarse and stuffy but he sounds a lot less tired than he did when we last saw one another.

"Well that depends," I say, crossing my arms and trying to contain a smile. "Will you be a good boy and not keel over half-dead before lunch?"

He doesn't say anything, probably trying to spare what little voice he's got at this point, but he keeps smiling at me and with his right index finger he draws a cross over his heart. I flash him a quick smile and move past him to get to class. I regret that smile instantly, as I hear one of his dim-witted friends opening his mouth behind me.

"Did I just see Katniss Everdeen  _flirting_  with you?" says said dim-witted friend, flabbergasted by the sound of it. I turn my head and, not entirely sure  _which_  friend opened his mouth, give the entire group of guys standing around Peeta a scowl. The guilty party laughs, and I do my best to ignore him as I walk into the room. "Yeah that scowl was a lot more familiar!" I hear him add.

I find an empty seat and pull out a chair, feeling irritated already, and it's not even eight o'clock. Not that I  _want_  to be flirty with any of the guys at school, or have ever even cared what they think of me romance-wise, but it's a little bit hurtful to hear some guy speak of me as if the mere thought of me exhibiting such behaviour is unbelievable. I would like to be a lot better at the romantic stuff, I think Gale deserves as much, and while his opinion ought to be the only one that matters I would like to think I at least have the capacity to be convincingly flirty with any guy I choose.

With a sigh I push the thought from my mind. None of that matters right now, I suppose. I, along with the rest of my classmates, will be spending the next hour rehashing previous winners of the Hunger Games. There's been no official information about this, but we all have a sneaking suspicion that one of our main final exams is going to be about the Games. It has been almost every year.

As if it wasn't enough that we have one more Reaping to survive, merely a week after our graduation.

* * *

Later that day we get forty minutes of spare time, thanks to our math teacher haven taken ill. Like most of our classmates, Madge and I spend that time in the assembly room, me doing homework and Madge studying for the one major exam we know for sure is coming – coal. We work in silence, Madge and I, barely uttering a word between us for nearly half an hour. It's familiar and it's comfortable and being able to sit with her and be in each other's company without talking all the time is one of the things I've always liked about her. Somehow though it feels a bit strange nowadays – at least in the assembly room. The majority of the time I spend here nowadays is in Peeta's company and we talk quite a lot. You have to when you're partnering on a project, but it's more than that. He's talkative and inquisitive and somehow he's gotten me dragged into it. I've come to like it and sitting in total silence feels kind of weird. Just not weird enough that I'd start a conversation. I may have changed a bit over the years, but I haven't changed  _that_ much.

I look over at the table where Peeta sits together with a group of his friends. They talk in muted voices amongst each other and knowing Peeta it's about both schoolwork and other things, jumbled together. The boys seem to be debating something at the moment and I alter between looking down at my work and glancing over at them so that none of them will notice me and make a thing out of it. That's the last thing either of us needs, especially after that earlier remark about me possibly flirting with him. One glance goes in Madge's direction, making sure she doesn't notice me watching Peeta either. She seems to think I like him more than as just friends and I suppose I don't blame her for guessing that. She doesn't know our history with the bread and the dandelion. I could explain it to her, but I prefer keeping it to myself. I haven't even told Peeta about what that all meant to me and it seems he should be the first to hear.

When I look over at Peeta again the girl I suspect is his girlfriend, or soon to be anyway, has come up to the boys' table and wrapped her arms around his neck from behind, her arms falling down over his chest and her cheek pressing against his. She's saying something to him and he's smiling warmly, one hand coming up to pat her on the arm. I almost forget I'm only watching him on the sly, I'm so engrossed in the scene playing out before my eyes. I scowl as I watch them, not sure I like the idea of him dating her. They don't seem right for one another. She kisses him on the cheek and then pulls away from him and quickly I turn my eyes back to my books in case she's heading this way.

I notice Madge looking at me, looking as if she's confused or surprised, yet somehow also… not. I can't explain it, and because she doesn't say a word I try to act as if there's nothing for her to react  _to_. Not that there really is. But I make sure not to cast a single look in Peeta's direction for the duration of the day.

* * *

Come Monday Peeta has recuperated enough so that his voice is mostly back to normal. He's stuck with a cough, which he tries to claim is not too bad even though by the time he says that to me I've already heard him have several long coughing fits during the day. I would like to point out to him that he ought to pass on wrestling practice this week as well, but I don't bother. If he was dead set on going last week, and it took the combined efforts of me and my mother to dissuade him, then nothing I say or do is going to keep him away now. Especially now that he's missed more than one practice and needs to make up for lost time.

Our envelope this week contains a lot more than just the one sheet of paper. Peeta is the one who opens it, and I watch him eye through the first paragraph or so, after which a smile that I can only describe as being somewhat sad comes upon his face. He looks up at me, a touch of warmth adding to that smile but doing nothing to make it seem happier.

"This is… surprisingly bittersweet," he says.

"What is?" The answer hits me while I'm asking the question. "Oh…" Suddenly I understand that smile, and I believe my own is matching his. Acting on instinct I reach out and place my hand on top of his. "It's our last scenario, isn't it?"

"It is," he confirms with a nod. "The very last…" He laughs briefly, wistfully. "Who'd have thought there would be an element of sadness to seeing this whole thing end?"

I have no answer to that. If anything I am relieved that he feels the same way I do. With all the negativity I've spewed over this project one would think I'd be nothing but glad to know it is about to be over soon, but even though I've recognized for a few weeks now that I would also miss working on it, it surprises me to feel this much melancholy over it.

But there's no use in sitting here lamenting. I give Peeta's hand a pat before pulling my own hand back, and try to make my smile seem more upbeat.

"Let's make it one hell of a last assignment, then. Knock it out of the park. What do you say, project-husband dearest?"

"Well, darling," he replies, drawing out the a-sound while pronouncing it in his best Effie Trinket impersonation, "I think we should make this our best work yet." His smile becomes a bit more cheerful, too. "Set an example for future generations."

"Right," I chuckle softly. "Alright, then. What does our last quest entail?"

"Well, let me see here…" he says, a wrinkle appearing on his brow as he begins to eye the text again. "There are quite a lot of instructions for parts of it; I'll let you read through it all on your own in just a minute…" I watch his eyes move rapidly from side to side as he reads. He hums every other second, furrows his brow a bit deeper after a while, then turns to the second page. There are three pages all in all, and two thicker envelopes included as well. There also appears to be a list of some sort, and I'm tempted to read it while I wait for him to summarize our assignments for me, but I decide not to since it might not make sense to me yet. Finally he turns to the third page, skims through it in a rapid pace and then looks at me. "You won't believe this, but there's  _no budget_  this time." He lets out a brief, incredulous laugh. "I almost feel like I don't know who I am anymore."

"You make your jokes," I say, rolling my eyes slightly. "I'm cheering inside."

"You might not be in two seconds. See those envelopes?"

"Yeah?"

"We each have to write a big essay, seven to ten pages, summarizing what we've learned, what we will take with us into our soon-to-be futures, and wax philosophically about the purpose of marriage." He raises an eyebrow. "All but two of those words were theirs, not mine."

"Seven pages minimum?" I wail, running both my hands through my hair. "Are they trying to kill us before the Hunger Games might?"

"Oh, it gets better," he says. "The essays aren't the only thing that goes in those envelopes." He lets the instruction sheets drop to the table and smiles without any trace of mirth whatsoever. "We have to write an additional  _three_  pages discussing our partner's performance, including things we think he or she needs to improve upon in 'future life'," he says, making air quotes around the last two words. He scoffs, sounding near disgusted with the idea. "And I don't mean in general, but things they said or did or suggested as solutions to the assignments we've had."

"I think I might be nauseous," I groan.

"It's brutal," says Peeta flatly. "Not only does it feel like an assignment with the potential for cruelty and for creating some serious problems for people who are partnered with their boyfriend or girlfriend, but  _three whole pages_?" He makes a miserable face. "What am I supposed to write about you? 'Ideal project partner' doesn't take up three pages no matter how large you write it."

Even with the enormous frustration, not to mention  _trepidation_ , I'm feeling right now I feel a wave of pride and happiness wash through me when he says that, and even though I only manage a little smile it is a very genuine one. And part of it is that I know he means it.

"Thank you," I say with all my sincerity. "If you figure out how to do that, please let me in on the secret. As far as I know, ' _perfect_  project partner' doesn't take up a lot of space, either."

His smile is as small as mine, and it's a bit melancholic even though I can tell he's as genuinely moved by that as I was by what he said.

"I guess we ended up being a great match," he says in a very simple and honest way. "I guarantee you I would have been a crap partner if I had been doing this thing with Mallory." I laugh a little, not because it's all that funny, but because I feel a bit bashful. "I suppose some minds work better together than others. You know, bring out the best in one another?"

"Ideal teammates," I suggest, to which he nods. I blush a little as I put my next thought to words. "Fittingly… the way a real marriage ought to work." Quickly I clear my throat and embellish on the thought. "Except, you know, that instead of make-believe scenarios where you have to pour over books to learn about twins, it's… well, real marriage."

Before the moment can get too intense, or too awkward, Peeta gets another coughing fit. He turns away from the table and coughs into the bend of his arm for a good minute or so, his face turning red. Quickly I get up, a little bit relieved to step away from the table for a second to be honest, and head over to the water fountain by the entry. There's a dispenser full of plastic cups next to it and I fill one up with water and bring it back to him. He's still coughing when I set it down in front of him, though not quite so much, and he croaks out a 'thank you' before drinking it. Once the coughs have subsided he seems to need a second to collect his bearings and in the meantime I grab the three pages of instructions and read them myself.

It's a disheartening read. Not only is there a full page detailing instructions for the essay and the partner evaluation, the other page and a half contain one last scenario, divided into two parts. In the first part they have seen fit to give us more marital problems, as – shock and surprise – having three babies within the span of a couple of years can put a strain on a relationship. Not only are we apparently fighting, and have to write something together about why we think that might be – as if the aforementioned babies wouldn't be the obvious answer – and what advice we would like to give to our fictional selves. The second part is no more cheerful, as we might be happy as can be in our make-believe marriage again, but our children have now grown bigger and they are starving and we have to try and think outside the box to find extra monetary resources, or some other way of putting food on the table. There are at least some aspects that aren't so dreary. We need to write something about how we can best help our children with schoolwork, what kind of things we think they can do to help out around the house at various ages, and finally – and this part surprises me a great deal – a jump ahead several years into the future, when our children have grown up, married and left the house. This part only gets one bullet point but interests me more than all other parts of this assignment combined. It's about what we expect it will be like once our children leave home and it's only the two of us again, both the good and the bad.

"I have to say…" I murmur, "I'm pleasantly surprised."

"How is that?" croaks Peeta, still recovering from his coughs.

"Not a single thing about our children having the high honour of ending up in the Hunger Games, or dying of starvation or sickness, or one of  _us_  dying." I feel a shiver run through me as I think of what it would be like to have to write something that I can draw far too much inspiration from in real life. "Once I got to the end of it I half expected the last bit to revolve around getting to the age where one of us would have likely died."

"Always the optimist," says Peeta hoarsely, his face still red. He coughs twice more and gets up, cup in hand, presumably to go get more water. I follow him with my eyes for a second, then eye all our instructions again with a sigh.

"I hate this already," I mumble. It's almost as if our teachers intentionally made the last assignment such a huge chore in order to cure those of us who were starting to feel like we might just miss all of this.

I had been naïve enough to hope for a lighter burden this week, figuring that we'd get a brief moment of respite before kicking into gear with the last big workload. I could very much have used more spare time on my hands this week, since I've got enough on my mind with my personal life. Gale's birthday is coming up, his twentieth, and while we haven't said anything about it to each other I know he will be expecting me to pay him a visit that day. Which is exactly what I intend to do, that itself is not the problem.

"Geez, sorry about that," gasps Peeta, bringing me out of my thoughts as he plops down on his chair, half-filled mug in one hand and wiping his mouth with the other. "Thank you for getting me water."

I eye him sceptically, one eyebrow raised.

"I suppose there's no point in asking how you think you'll get through wrestling practice without coughing up a lung?"

"Because I have to," he answers simply. Before I can ask follow-up questions, or pester him in any other way, he opens his notebook and starts making dots for a bullet-point list. "Okay, so, how do you want to divide the work?"

* * *

Despite knowing that we've got quite a workload in these last few weeks, my mind begins to wander about halfway through the hour. I wanted to work on the part about finding extra resources and putting more food on the table, and that should keep me more than occupied, but now that the proverbial dust has settled from the disheartening assignments our teachers dumped on us my mind keeps going to a more immediate issue, one that pertains to real life. I almost wish we had opted for working first on the assignment that we need to do together, on why our pretend marriage is having problems and how to best solve them. That would have been sufficiently distracting as it would have involved continuous discussions with Peeta, but he wanted to wait until next week, when his voice will be back completely. So here I sit, working on my own thing and mostly in silence, while Peeta sits opposite me, chewing on the plastic cap to one of his pencils, channelling his most pedagogical sides for the assignment he's working on.

The issue that my brain keeps wanting to focus on is that of Gale's upcoming birthday. Specifically, how to best congratulate him, and not just in a general way, but in a girlfriend way. It feels like a lot of pressure, when I've never had any concerns about his birthday in the past. But I want to make it special for him this year. I want to make him feel appreciated. Birthdays have always been a bit of a thing in the Hawthorne family; Hazelle feels it is important that her children should all have one day a year when they get to feel special and be celebrated, and while Gale is certainly mature enough not to make a huge deal about it if I don't mark the occasion in some extra special way, I know I  _want_  to do something special for him. I'm still trying to find my footing as a girlfriend, and not falling flat on my face on this particular score feels important.

"Hello? Earth to Katniss?" The words reach me, but I barely hear them. A sing-song-y whistle makes me more alert and I slowly turn my head in my project partner's direction. Peeta is looking at me very sceptically and I immediately blush, realizing I've been ignoring both him and our project for several minutes.

"Sorry," I mumble, resting my chin in the palm of my hand and hoping that my fingers will cover my cheek enough that he can't detect their colour.

"I hope you were someplace nice," he says, shifting in his chair and picking his pencil back up, scepticism still in his eyes. "A beach at sunset perhaps, or a large buffet table just for you personally. And for Prim, I guess."

"No…" I sigh, trying to focus on the work in front of me, but it seems like my eyes won't register the words I've written down thus far. "I mean, yeah, of course."

"Hey, I wasn't prying, no need to lie," he says. "You don't have to talk about it, but given our rather gruelling workload for this last leg of the project, I will ask you to hold off at least twenty more minutes before losing yourself to daydreams."

"I was not daydreaming!" I scoff.

"Fine, whatever. But I do need you to focus on this, just a little while longer." He's quiet for a few seconds, his eyes darting between me and his notebook several times. "Unless something's up and you want to put a pin in this for now, get on home and schedule some extra work time later this week?" He adopts an almost annoyingly understanding tone. "That would be fine with me, really, because I have a sneaking suspicion this will demand of us an entire Sunday of extra work, anyway.  _Not_  going to miss that once the project ends…"

"That won't be necessary, thanks," I mumble, writing the last words of the sentence I was working on before drifting off. "You were right before. We ought to be as efficient as we can while we're on school hours."

"Okay," he answers in what's practically a mumble, his eyes now glued to what he's writing.

I cross my arms on the table and lean over them, looking at the sociology textbook open in front of me and trying to concentrate on finding the information that I need, but I feel bad. I've admonished Peeta in the past when I've felt he hasn't had his mind on the school work, and I have to admit that my accusations haven't always been well founded. It's not right of me to sit here and think about other things, especially to the point where I zone out and forget what I'm supposed to be doing. If nothing else I owe him honesty.

"It's Gale's birthday on Thursday."

"Oh. That's nice. You guys, uh…" He clears his throat. "Doing anything special?"

"Well, not really, but… I was distracted because I was thinking about it."

Peeta looks up at me briefly, a small smile on his lips.

"Don't worry about it."

"Yeah," I nod. "Thanks."

I keep my eyes on the work in front of me for the duration of the hour, but the truth is I get next to nothing done. I strongly suspect that Peeta notices, since I only write down one or two sentences in twenty minutes' time, but he's far too polite to ever comment or reproach me. I feel terrible about it and make a promise to myself that I will have my share of the work done by tomorrow morning, even though it's not due for another two weeks and even though Peeta won't know about it until next Monday anyway.

Project hour ends and Peeta begins gathering his things, pausing to cough into the bend of his arm. I immediately drift off again, my eyes travelling somewhere else in the room though I have little to no idea what I'm actually looking at. A hand appears in front of my face, slowly moving up and down accompanied by a whistle. I startle and turn my head to find Peeta leaning over the chair in-between us, supporting his weight by resting his other hand on the table, looking at me with concern.

"You're just someplace else entirely, aren't you?" he says, his words teasing but his tone serious. He straightens his back and puts the last of his things in his backpack. "If you don't mind me asking, what's so complicated about Gale having a birthday?"

"I want to get him a present," I tell him, unsure if he cares enough about this to listen but also not sure if there's anyone else who might. Peeta is a good listener and has a good head on his shoulders. Plus, he's a guy. He might be able to help me out, even though I have a feeling he's the last person I ought to be asking. In fact, if I hadn't known he was seeing someone I probably would have felt inappropriate asking him. "Which is to say…" I continue with a bit of hesitation, "I don't know if he wants me to. We've never exchanged gifts before but I'm his girlfriend now and I want to give him something, you know – show him that I care."

"Well he probably already knows  _that_ ," says Peeta, his voice sounding a little strange. "Is there a reason why you think he might not want a gift from you?"

"We've never been much for that kind of stuff, either one of us. We both want to pay for what we get."

"How does that apply to birthday presents?" asks Peeta. "And from your girlfriend or boyfriend especially?"

"I give people birthday presents," I feel the need to interject. "Especially for Prim I try to find something great. But family is one thing…"

"I've never not given a girlfriend of mine a birthday present," he replies, cringing before he coughs again, this time into his palm. "I don't know Gale very well, or at all in fact, but I doubt that he would feel beholden to you if you got him a present for his birthday. If anything, I think he would really love it. And he'll return the gesture on  _your_  birthday, right? So it all evens out in the end."

"I don't think he wants me to spend my money on him. He knows we barely have enough to go around." The last bit is difficult to admit out loud, and I blush slightly as I say it, but it's not like Peeta isn't already aware.

"Gifts don't have to involve money." His eyes go to the clock on the wall and I realize he might be running late for wrestling practice. I force a smile on my lips.

"I should let you go. Thanks for the advice."

"Yeah, sure. Anytime." He puts his backpack on and runs a hand through his beard. "Thanks for today, Katniss."

"Hey Peeta!" I call out just as he's about to leave the table. He stops and turns back to me, even though he can't be late for wrestling.

"Yeah?"

It takes me half a minute to formulate my question, which I know is really bad of me when I'm keeping him from something important. I just don't know how to get the words out because I feel awkward asking him, while at the same time I'm determined, because I really want to get Gale a nice birthday present.

"When you said gifts don't need to involve money… What did you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know," he says, fidgeting as his eyes move from spot to spot without ever landing on me. "Just, you know, I mean you hunt and you gather, and you do all sorts of stuff, so…"

"Yeah, but so does Gale. And I doubt he wants a dead badger for a present."

"Katniss I'm really not the right person to ask," he says, sounding quite uncomfortable. "I've barely ever talked to the guy. I don't know what kind of gift he would want."

"But you have ideas nonetheless," I persist. "You're creative. You must have  _some_  idea of what I could get him…"

I almost want to ask him if he could draw a portrait of me that I could give to Gale, but I know I can't. For one that would be a gift that needed to be paid for, and for another Gale would never accept such a gift knowing it had cost me money – and he certainly wouldn't accept it if Peeta gave it to me for free. Which I would never agree to anyway. And even if it wasn't for all those things, I still would feel wrong asking him. His academic workload is just as voluminous as mine, and on top of that he's got his wrestling and the hours he works at the bakery, and on top of  _that_  he has his own dating life to prioritise. And even on top of  _that_ , there's the undefinable feeling that it would just be  _wrong_ , both towards him and towards Gale – who certainly wouldn't be glad to know that a guy he thinks  _likes_  me put time, effort and valuable supplies into drawing me. No, a portrait is completely out of the question, but then again I never truly entertained the thought in the first place.

Peeta looks very uncomfortable, no doubt wishing he had ran off to change for practice several minutes ago and left me at the table lost in my own train of thought. I should feel terrible for keeping him here, and partially I do, but I really want to get this gift for my boyfriend and I believe that Peeta can help me find an answer. Finally he draws a deep breath and lets it out in a huff, ceasing to fidget and looks me in the eye.

"If it were me… and this is  _me_ , like I said before I don't know Gale at all… But if it were me, anything you made for me would be something I would cherish. It doesn't have to be anything special, just something I knew you took the time and consideration to make for me."

"But I can't make anything. Except for arrows."

His eyes go to my braid, hanging over my left shoulder.

"You're great at braiding your hair. You should cut off a strand of your hair, braid it and give it to him for a keepsake."

My fingers touch my hair, my inner eye trying to imagine the look on Gale's face upon accepting such a gift from me. It would cost me nothing and it would be something from  _me_ , personally. Perhaps he would like that. I look up at Peeta, whose eyes seem to be on my braid as well, though I'm not sure he's actually seeing it.

"You really think he would like that as a gift?" I ask with both nervousness and softness.

"I, uh…" He clears his throat, which still gets hoarse every now and then after his cold last week, and begins to shift his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes going down to his feet. "I know _I_  would." A soft smile spreads across my face but he doesn't see it. He looks at the clock again and clears his throat once more. "I really have to run. Take care Katniss, I'll see you around."

"Thank you, Peeta."

"Yeah," he says absentmindedly. "Uh, good luck. I'm sure whatever you get him, he'll love."

And with that he's off in a light run, skilfully slaloming between other students, whether they are standing still or walking. I remain seated for a few minutes, ponderously fingering the end of my braid, wondering if Gale really would appreciate a gift like that.

But it's not like I have any better ideas. And Peeta usually has  _good_  ideas.

* * *

It's early Thursday morning – so early, in fact, that none of the miners seem to have left home yet when I step outside the door and kneel down to light the lantern on the porch. Once it has been lit I put on a pair of thick mittens and adjust my game bag on my left shoulder, using my right hand to carry the light. My breath is clearly visible with each exhale and the snow crepitates beneath my feet as I walk the silent streets of the Seam. It's beautiful at this hour, the snow sparkling in the moonlight like diamonds, illuminating the early morning slightly with it's pretty whites in contrast to the darkness of the sky, the streets, the houses. It's cold, but a pleasant kind of cold, the air feeling crisp and refreshing, and thankfully there's no wind blowing. I wish I didn't have to go to school today, that Gale didn't have to go spend his twentieth birthday in the mines, that the two of us could trek out to our glade and spend the whole day there together, from watching the beauty of the rising sun to letting the surroundings invigorate us and fill us with some much-needed energy. But alas, if the calendar doesn't say Sunday we don't get to be out in the woods together.

It takes me about five minutes to walk from my door to Gale's, and in that time three or four men pass me by on the streets, heading towards a long shift in the mines. We nod to each other in passing, but don't speak to one another. None of their faces are familiar, anyway. But the district is beginning to wake up – the impoverished part, at any rate. In town I imagine many people are still sleeping under their warm comforters and blankets, and for those few who have some measure of money, like peacekeepers or the mayor's family, there is no need to stir from slumber for at least another hour. Not that there aren't a handful of town families whose businesses require them to be early risers. I lend a fleeting thought to Peeta, wondering if he's out of bed yet, perhaps already kneading dough and heating ovens with his parents and brothers. I don't know if his chores around the home and the business extend to helping out in the mornings before leaving for school, or if the gentle-hearted baker allows his boys to sleep in, especially on cold days like today.

I reach the Hawthorne home and walk up the two rickety wooden steps to the front porch. Removing my mitten I form a fist and knock on the door with my knuckles. Then I kneel down and set my lantern down beside the door, leaving it lit since I won't be staying very long. If I lean to the left I can see inside the kitchen, the room illuminated by kerosene lamps and a small fireplace. As I walked up to the house I saw that all five members of the family were up and about, which I doubt would be the case on a normal day, but today is, after all, somebody's birthday.

Hazelle opens the door, and smiles warmly when she sees me. She motions for me to come in and takes a step to the side to make room for me.

"Gale!" she calls warmly. "Katniss is here."

From the kitchen I can hear the sound of a chair pulling back, and I've barely had the time to remove my scarf before my boyfriend appears in the doorway, his whole face lighting up at the sight of me. I grin at him in return, happy that my surprise visit made  _him_  happy. As his mother walks back to the kitchen, probably to give us a bit of privacy, Gale strides up to me, captures my cheeks between his palms, leans down and kisses me in a way that is full of pent-up desire. I laugh a little against his lips, wrapping my arms around his waist as our faces pull apart from one another.

"Happy birthday," I say tenderly. "Twenty years old, Hawthorne. Not bad."

"Yeah, your man is all grown up now," he smiles, one hand affectionately brushing my bangs to the side. He smiles lovingly down at me, and I return the smile with as much warmth as I can. "This is a fabulous surprise. Already you've made my birthday the best one as far back as I can remember."

"Boy, you don't have the bar set very high, do you?" I tease.

"I'm serious," he says with a kind of loving sweetness that throws me off balance. It's the kind of way I've heard girls speak to their boyfriends at school but never in my life imagined coming from Gale. He laughs lightly, an ecstatic sound, and rubs his nose against mine. "And I have a feeling my day will only get better from here on out." He trails kisses from the corner of my mouth to my ear, his breath hot to the point of being uncomfortably so. "To say nothing of the rest of my life," he whispers. "It's like turning a page… A little over nineteen years without you, and the rest of my life…"

He doesn't finish the thought but it's clear as day what he means to say. I squirm, pulling away from his tight embrace, fighting to keep smiling and avoid scowling. Why does he insist on doing that? Speaking as if it's a done deal that we'll be in a relationship from now until eternity. We're supposed to be exploring still, and I get that he's made up his mind about what he wants but I haven't yet, and I dislike the pressure. It's barely been three months since we started going out! Can't I get more time than that to get in touch with my own heart and make decisions about the rest of my life? Why does there have to be a rush? We  _can't_  even have a toasting for another fourteen months, should we both desire to.

Since I don't want to start an argument on his birthday – I came here to make him  _happy_ , not to ruin his day – I masquerade my withdrawal from his embrace as needing a little space to move my game bag from my shoulder and reach inside it for his present.

"I thought I'd give you your birthday present now, rather than this evening."

"You got me a present?" he asks, sounding almost childlike in his excitement.

"You didn't think I would?" I ask teasingly, one eyebrow raised as my right hand searches through the bag.

"Well, I mean, you know I'd never want you to feel like you  _need_  to spend money on me just because it's my birthday," he says, his cheeks charmingly flushed a touch, and his hands tucked into his back pockets as he leans one shoulder against the wall. "And, uh…" He blushes a bit more, which is very rare for Gale Hawthorne, and I notice his eyes darting quickly towards the kitchen. He lowers his voice and tilts his chin down, putting a boyish look on his face as he peers at me through his dark bangs. "I was hoping you had plans on a gift that would cost nothing at all, yet has an enormous value…" He casts another quick glance in the direction of the kitchen and lowers his voice even further. "Say… Agreeing to spend the night with me. Celebrate my birthday the best way possible."

My jaw drops at his words and their implication, and my hand freezes in mid-motion, his gift sitting right there in the bag, at the tips of my fingers. Thankfully, I quickly reel from the shock and find my bearings, managing laughter that dismisses what he just said as a joke with little to no elements of truth within it.

"You really have become a jester in your old age," I say lightly.

The look on his face is hard to read. With a small smile on his lips he moves in closer, his hands still in his back pockets, and his eyes bearing into mine. His voice remains low when he speaks.

"I do hope you'll be spending some time with me…  _alone_ … tonight…" he says suggestively.

"Your mother is making you a special dinner," I protest uneasily. "Your brothers and your sisters are looking forward to-"

" _After_  dinner."

"We'll see," I say, trying not to scowl. "I have school tomorrow and you've got work." I can see his brow beginning to furrow, so I grab the gift I brought for him and pull it from the bag, shoving it in his hand. "I got this for you. It may not be much, but it's with consideration, and I hoped it would be sufficient." I look around for my lantern, then I remember I left it outside. "I have to hurry home, or Prim and I will be late for school. I'll see you tonight. With your family."

I hear him call my name as I scurry out the door, but I pretend not to hear. Closing the door between us I momentarily lean against it, feeling uneasy and disappointed. I grab the lantern and hurry down from the porch and back onto the road that leads back home. Great. This is just great. Now I've gone and probably ruined his birthday, before breakfast even! And I came here to make his birthday a good one! Though to my credit, I suppose, I did succeed in doing so for the better part of three minutes.

As I walk home at a brisk pace, shivering from the cold and from disappointment, I ask myself – for what feels like the umpteenth time these past few months – what is the matter with me. Why can't I be a good girlfriend? Why does the thought of Gale wanting me alone in his bed all night the night of his birthday make me want to run away? I don't know if it's an unreasonable thing to ask of your girlfriend. Judging by the couples in my class, who seem to be on a daily mission to touch every part of each other's mouths with their tongues, it's not an uncommon thing to want. But it's more than just the request for me to spend the night that brought about my abrupt exit. It was that incessant talk about the future he wants for us. The future he takes for granted, despite my repeated reminders that I don't want marriage. Gale and I have been so in sync with one another for years, functioning together like two parts of a whole out in the forest. Why is it that we haven't seemed to be on the same page with one another for a single day of our relationship? And how come Gale, who has always respected me completely, seems to find it so easy to shrug off the things I find important between us when they don't align with what  _he_  wants?

I reach home and my feet suddenly seem to weigh a hundred pounds each as I tiredly walk up the porch steps and snuff out the candle in the lantern. I walk inside and sit down on the stool in the entrance hall, waiting for Prim to finish milking her goat. Mother is nowhere to be seen. Still asleep, probably. Though my mind was working a mile a minute during the walk back, now it seems blank. I don't want to spend more time and energy thinking about this. I don't want to own up to the fact that I'm a sorry excuse for a girlfriend. Briefly I ponder the irony of me being a far better wife in the school project than I am a real girlfriend. I close my eyes and lean back against the wall, sighing heavily. I didn't even find out if Gale liked the present I got him. I took Peeta's suggestion and tweaked it, using small twigs I found in the woods to make a tiny bow and arrows, with strands of my hair serving as the bowstring. I thought it was fitting. A gift I made myself, using my own hair, something symbolising  _me_. Little had I known all I'd have to give him was… Well,  _me_. Could that really be how Gale would want a first time between us to happen? As a gift because it was his birthday? I want to be angry with him for not just wanting but apparently  _expecting_  something like that for tonight, despite my continued insisting that I want to die an unmarried virgin. What stops me from anger is guilt over having more or less stormed out on him on his birthday.

The sound of the kitchen door opening and closing reaches me and slowly I get back on my feet. Prim comes walking in from the kitchen, her cheeks rosy from the cold but her mood apparently rather good. She smiles at me and trots over to the shoe rack to find her boots, having stepped out of her other pair at the kitchen door. Since she was outside milking Lady her outerwear is all on, and once the boots are on she only needs to put her backpack on and she'll be ready to go.

"How was the birthday boy?" she chirps, plopping down on the stool I was just sitting on, so that she can get her footwear on.

"Fine," I answer shortly, earning me a suspicious look from my perceptive little sister.

"Did something happen?" she asks worriedly. "Did he not like the present?" She adds that part in a horrified and disbelieving way.

"Nothing happened, little duck," I lie. "Come on now, chop chop. It's slippery out there so we'll have to walk carefully, which means we have to leave earlier."

"Done!" she announces, leaping to her feet. I hand the backpack to her and she slips it on. She then gives me a concerned look, her brow furrowed. "Something must have happened," she insists, walking outside through the door I'm holding open for her. "You don't look like someone who just got home from surprising their boyfriend on his birthday."

In a sudden fit of frustration and rage I slam the door shut behind us, making Prim startle and stare at me with wide eyes, and no doubt waking Mother. Clenching my jaw I stride down the porch steps and with a sullen expression on my face begin the walk to school, my sister scampering beside me, trying to keep up with my pace. I know I'm behaving like a child just now, but I feel ready to puke on the next insinuation that I'm a failure of a girlfriend. I know Prim couldn't have meant to imply that. She's far too loyal to me to ever harbour such thoughts. But whether she realizes it or not, I'm still reading that interpretation into the words she said.

I offer her no explanation to my irritable mood, but when we're about halfway to school I give her a look and try to make my voice sound casual.

"We'll be going over to the Hawthornes for dinner around six o'clock."

"We?" she asks with a dumbfounded expression.

"Yeah." Though I don't know if Hazelle will be expecting my sister, and possibly my mother as well, it just occurred to me that the two of them being there will dissuade Gale in a natural way from trying to convince me to spend the night in his bed. At this point I'm willing to bring two extra guests to their table just to avoid another awkward conversation. "It is Gale's birthday. We should all be there to celebrate him, don't you think?" Her beautiful blue eyes turn wide and unhappy, which immediately makes me concerned. "Prim?"

"Oh, it's just…" She sights and bites her bottom lip. "My new friends and I were going to study history together tonight." She continues in a rapid pace and in a tone that becomes more enthusiastic with every second. "I've never been invited to study with friends before,  _ever_ , and you know how much I hate history! We were going to make a thing out of it, quiz each other in a kind of contest and things like that. I've been looking forward to it all week!" The excitement peters out and the unhappy look returns. "Never mind. There will be other study nights."

"There will be, I promise you that," I nod. "And you're not going to miss out on tonight."

She looks at me with hope kindling in her sweet face.

"Really Katniss?" Then she clears her throat. "No, you were right before. It's Gale's birthday and he's like a brother to me, and now he's your boyfriend. I should go with you to his house tonight."

"Gale will understand," I insist, knowing that he absolutely will, since he was never expecting her to begin with. We stop at the road that leads to school, waiting for a pair of peacekeepers to pass by in their car. "We can invite him to dinner at our house this weekend. Have a bit of a celebration of our own."

With an excited squeal she throws her arms around my neck, thanking me giddily. I laugh slightly and hug her back, feeling a little bit better, despite knowing I'll be on my own with Gale and his libido tonight. Though as we pull apart from our embrace, and Prim sticks her small, mitten-clad hand in mine, and we begin to walk again, I can't help but wonder who these new friends of hers are – and how come I haven't heard of them before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's a lot of Galeniss in this chapter... I can't tell for myself whether this comes across or not, but it's not meant to be an uplifting read for any Galeniss shippers who might have found their way to this story. As things begin to fall apart for them, Gale will be featured more often. I contemplated for quite some time if I really should have Katniss ask Peeta for advice on what to get him, but in the end I decided to go with it. It might seem harsh from the viewpoint of us Everlark shippers, but from Katniss' POV she's asking advice from a boy who sees her as just a friend, presumably having feelings for the girlfriend he supposedly has. She trusts Peeta's judgment and his opinions, so she has nothing to lose by asking him.
> 
> Keep your fingers crossed that I'll be able to update again real soon!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be honest here - this probably my least favourite chapter so far. I don't know how many versions I wrote of the last scene, and the parts before it aren't overly exciting either... Or maybe it's just that it's a bit of a bridge chapter, and those are never overly inspiring for me to write. I hope I can update once more at least before the year is over, but you never know.

"So how did it go last week?"

The question surprises me a little. Peeta doesn't look up at me as he asks it, his eyes on his notebook, his diligent hand scribbling away.

"How did what go?"

"Gale's birthday. The present."

"Oh. Fine, thank you."

Thankfully that reply isn't entirely a lie, even though the day didn't start off very well. We were able to make up in the evening, and Gale said he loved my gift. I'm almost positive he would have liked a physical gift a whole lot more, but at least he didn't say anything to that effect. Of course, the evening was, for the first three hours, awkward enough on its own. Gale, not being a complete idiot, realized that his request had made me uncomfortable, but since it was his birthday he was constantly surrounded by his family – Posy in particular seemed to want to sit on his lap, or sing to him, or tell him stories almost the entire time. Because of this we didn't have a chance to speak alone until an hour after dinner, when Posy had gone to bed.

When we finally stepped out on the back porch to talk, shrouded in darkness as thick clouds covered the moon and the stars, and the candle in Gale's lantern was close to burning out, we had talked. Not for long, but for long enough I think. He apologised. I apologised too – not for refusing his request, but for storming off instead of telling him no there and then. He confessed he had had a rather miserable day in the mines, worried about having offended me.

That could have been the end of it, but Gale insisted that we need to have a deeper conversation sometime soon, preferably out in the woods, far away from other people and with as much time as needed on our hands. We both knew it wasn't the right time to have that talk right there in that moment; the hour was growing late and both him and I would need to get to bed soon – separately. Though he didn't say what topic we need to discuss, I know already. And it makes me weary to think of it. I feel I have made my position as clear as can be regarding sex – still I suppose I'm willing to have that conversation, if for no other reason than to get a better understanding of what's going on in  _his_  mind. I feel so oddly alienated from him in that regard nowadays. For such a long time we've understood each other well, and now it seems we don't understand one another at all.

Yesterday, when we were hunting in the woods, we should have spoken about it, but it ended up never being brought up. And no wonder – it was a beautiful day yesterday, and both of us felt invigorated by the change in weather that signalled that spring is arriving. When we met up we were both in good spirits and all of a sudden we were back in sync with one another – both Gale and I understanding that the other wanted to enjoy this feeling as much as we could, and not spoil it with talks about problems in our relationship. So we set the problems aside for a day and enjoyed the feeling of things being  _right_  between us. The temperature was above freezing even when we met up, before the sun had risen. The snows have begun to melt, the birds are singing more cheerfully, and it won't be long now before life comes back to the world. Perhaps… perhaps it can bring something back that's been lacking with Gale and me. With a soft smile I think back on when Gale stood, yesterday, beneath a tree that had branches heavy with snow, and the higher temperature and warm sun caused said snow to droop and eventually fall down right on Gale's head. We both laughed, and when he pulled me close for a kiss it felt alright. I wish we could feel that way more often.

"I think I have some bad news," says Peeta, bringing me back from my thoughts and making me scowl.

"What?"

He sighs heavily and lets the pencil drop, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

"I just don't think I'll be able to complete the work in time. Strictly speaking, all we've got is this one hour. Next Monday we'll have to set aside to work on our essays and start compiling the work we've done on the rest of the scenario, and the Monday after that we've only got thirty minutes to get it all ready…"

"And then we hand it all in," I finish his thought.

I can't believe that's all the time we've got left. A few months ago this project seemed never ending, and now… I look at Peeta and I think I see similar thoughts in his eyes, but neither of us puts them to words. What good would that do?

"How is the rest of your week?" he asks. He coughs into the bend of his arm, and I note that the coughing fits still last a rather long time. "Do you think you can pencil me in for a work session? Preferably tomorrow, or on Sunday, since I've got either wrestling practice or shifts at the bakery the other days."

"I should pencil you in for the days when you've got wrestling practice," I say dryly. "Save your health from ruin."

"I don't care about my health. I care about winning the tournament." I give him a look, trying to determine if he's joking or being serious. He leans forward again and grabs his pencil, drumming it against his bottom lip in a by now familiar gesture. "Personally I think Sunday fits the best. We could get an early start and just work until we're about done. If we meet up tomorrow we'll only have a couple of hours."

I take a moment to think it over. I ought to set Sunday aside for hunting. Especially now, when the snows have begun to melt, and the environment out there is about to change and come to life. I don't think the weather these past two days has been a fluke, today the sun is shining bright and the birds have begun to sing more eagerly in their trees. But Peeta has a point. Meeting up tomorrow might not mean we won't have to meet up Sunday.

"Okay," I say, making up my mind. I can go hunt on Saturday. Gale can manage on his own without me Sunday morning.

"Okay what?" asks Peeta, somewhat confusedly.

"Okay, Sunday it is."

He grins at me and I smile back at him.

"Good decision," he says in a preppy voice, making me chuckle.

"Now stop dallying and get back to work," I say in a mock-stern voice. "Come Sunday I want to hear at least  _something_  about how our parallel-selves can manage a marital crisis."

"Geez, a guy can't take a two-minute break without his wife being all over him to get back to work," he says dramatically, his eyes rolling.

"That's how it is," I say, still in that stern voice. "And I don't hear your pencil scribbling."

He laughs a little, but his laughter turns into a coughing fit. I give him an uneasy look as he coughs into the bend of his arm while rummaging through his backpack in search of a water bottle. Once he finds it he has a bit to drink but it does nothing to put a stop to the coughing. He then finds something else in a side pocket – a brown paper bag, looking wrinkled and folded and crumpled to the point of being just about ready to fall apart. He takes something out of it and puts it in his mouth, sucking on it until the coughs dissipate.

"Stop looking at me with that tone of voice," he says, his voice hoarse from the coughs and a touch unintelligible from whatever it is he's sucking on.

"Peeta would you  _please_  skip practice today?" I implore, crossing my arms on the table and leaning forward. "Are you even able to get anything out of it, when the slightest physical strain makes you cough like that?"

"I went to practice all week last week and lo and behold, you are not standing by my grave."

"Maybe not, but you know my thoughts on this issue."

"Why the hell do you care so much?" he scowls, the thing he's sucking on making clicking noises against his teeth.

"Well for one thing, if you drop dead from lack of oxygen I would rather you did it after we were finished with our project."

"Ouch," he says. "Cold, even for you, Everdeen."

"I just don't see the point in you attending practice when you can't participate."

"What makes you think I don't participate? I've  _competed_  in worse shape than I am right now."

"Yeah? How did that go?"

"I came in fourth."

"And how many were competing? Five"

His eyes narrow and he gives me a look that seems disproportionately annoyed. For the life of me I cannot understand why this matters so much to him that he's willing to put his health on the line. I know what he told me the other week, but it's still just a contest that will have no impact on the rest of his life. It's supposed to be a hobby, isn't it? But it's clearly a touchy subject with him.

"You know, sometimes you can be a real-" He stops himself abruptly and averts his eyes, still looking angry. I don't think I want to know what he was about to say. I can't imagine it being anything particularly bad, Peeta isn't the type of boy who goes around and calls people by crude names, but if it wasn't something bad then why did he stop himself? He looks at me again, his arms now crossed. "I appreciate the concern, or whatever, but it really is none of your business."

"Maybe not, but it's downright idiotic!" I can't help but counter.

"So is you trying to tell me what to do," he shoots back, biting into what I'm now guessing is a peppermint candy. It smells of peppermint, at any rate. "Especially when you know you're not going to be able to convince me."

"What does your girlfriend think about you putting your health at risk like this?"

"None of your damn business," he says coolly, giving me a look as icy as his tone.

"I think you're being an idiot," I tell him, turning my eyes back to my notebook because I don't like seeing that look in his eyes. "A foolhardy idiot who's putting his pride above common sense. And for the record it  _is_  my business, for as long as the project lasts. If you get pneumonia or something I will be left high and dry."

"My  _pride_?" He scoffs. "Well here's what I think. I think you don't care one way or the other if I start coughing up blood or faint or anything during practice or during the match. I think you're being a pain in my ass because you need some way of venting the pressure that we're all under right now with just a few more months of school left. So from this point on, I ask you to keep your comments about my wrestling to yourself. Your opinion on the matter has been duly noted and you're not going to change my mind."

That hurt. That hurt a lot. I press my lips together and try with all my might not to let him see just  _how_  cutting it was. Do I really come off as so cold a person that the classmate I've been working so closely with for months on end, and whom I've opened up to about things that aren't so easy for me to talk about, believes I don't care one iota about his wellbeing? Am I as big a failure as a friend as I am a girlfriend?

"What makes you think I wouldn't care?" I manage through gritted teeth.

"You've said it yourself, haven't you? Once we hand this last leg in you have no intention of speaking to me again, other than when we run into one another when you come to trade with my father."

I press my lips harder together but don't offer him an answer. I don't know what to say to that. I probably have said that, or something to that effect, but that has to do with being realistic and not with a lack of caring about him.

"Fine, then," I say coldly.

I get back to work, or at least the illusion of it. I'm not even entirely sure what I'm writing, and by the time I reach the end of the sentence I realize it makes no sense and I have to erase all of it and start over. I hear Peeta sighing, and it angers me. I don't know why he sighed, but I can assume it's got to do with being fed-up with me, and for that I think he's a jerk. What angers me even further is that he's not doing any work. I don't hear him writing anything at all. All I hear is a zipper being pulled and the rustle of a paper bag. Then he pushes something towards me and I lift my eyes to find that it's the same paper bag from before, the one he got the candy out of. Scowling, but with a bit of curiosity mixed in with my anger, I lift my eyes further to look at him. His anger seems to have gone away for now, but he's not looking to be in a good mood either.

"I should have offered you a candy before. It was rude of me not to."

"Thanks, but no thanks." The sight of the bag, and the knowledge of its contents, actually makes me salivate. But I can't take candy from him. Especially not when he might be offering solely to smooth my ruffled feathers.

"Come on," he urges kindly. "I've never met a person who doesn't like candy."

"I didn't say I don't like them. I just don't want one."

I expect another spout of bickering to begin, him insisting that I should have one and I insisting that I don't want any. But he nods and takes back the bag, putting it back into the side pocket of his backpack. He then pulls out his chair.

"I need to go to the bathroom. Back in five."

"Have a blast," I say dryly.

He heads off and I watch him slalom between the tables on his way to the bathrooms. A memory comes to mind, of me being the one to flee to that particular place when I was in need of a breather during the very beginning of our working together. I remember the kind of thoughts that had occurred to me that time. Of him with his previous girlfriends. Doing things. Somehow I manage to will myself not to blush at the memory, but then other images come to the forefront of my mind. Him with his new girlfriend – Belle's face, even though I'm not one hundred percent sure it's her – doing all the things Gale wanted me to do with him last week. I groan inwardly, cursing my mind for being so surprisingly dirty. So what if Peeta and that girl, whoever she is, are already sleeping together, while Gale and I are still at the kissing stage? If his decision to go to practice while he still has this cough is none of my business, then his sex life  _definitely_  isn't. But it makes me feel funny to think about it, and not in a good way.

After a few minutes I notice Peeta coming back into the room. While he's on his way to our table one of his friends stops him and tells him something. Whatever it is, I can tell that Peeta isn't happy to hear it. He seems to discuss it with his friend for a minute, then he continues on his way to our table. I pretend to be working when he approaches and sits back down, and I wait for him to stop coughing before I look up at him, hoping he will tell me what that was all about. It seems too nosy for me to ask, but I'm curious to know.

"I have great news for you, Katniss," he eventually says, his voice a mixture between sarcasm and annoyance.

"Your tone makes me nervous," I admit.

"Turns out you get your wish!"

"What do you mean?"

"Coach just went home. Stomach flu, apparently. Or something he ate that disagreed with him. Practice is cancelled."

He sounds so upset by this that I feel bad, despite everything.

"I'm sorry," I say genuinely. The look on his face, and his raised eyebrow, tells me he thinks I'm not even a little bit sincere. "I am," I insist. "I'm a bit relieved, but I'm sorry nonetheless. But hey, at least nobody gets to go to practice today, right?"

"Whoop-de-doo," he sighs with rolling eyes.

* * *

By the time we are done for the day our spirits have picked up. It's a little odd that Peeta doesn't have to rush off to practice, and I catch him looking at the clock with a wistful sigh, but it is what it is, and I'm mostly happy about this turn of events. His lungs could use a few more days to recuperate, even though I'm no idiot and I know that he will be at practice again in a few days. But at least for today he doesn't have to go. Instead we end up going along with one another to our lockers, and agree to converge by Peeta's locker, the one closer to the entrance, when we're both ready so we can walk together until our paths home take us in opposite directions.

We walk out into the bright afternoon, both of us squinting in the sunlight. It feels almost hot in comparison to the long months of below-freezing temperatures, and even though neither of us has a sufficiently warm coat for the coldest winter months I can tell when Peeta's eyes meet mine that he feels as hot in his outerwear as I do in mine. There's a fresh breeze, and if it doesn't abate the snow is going to be melting fast. The only troublesome bit is that the temperature is likely to dip below freezing during the night, and the melted snow will turn into ice.

"Looks like spring is here," I say.

"Thank goodness! I'm just surprised it came so suddenly. A week ago we were still in the dead of winter. Now it must be several degrees above freezing in the sunlight. My poor grandmother's going to be feeling her arthritis to the nth degree with the weather shifting this way."

We begin to walk, but don't make it more than fifty meters or so before we stop and remove our gloves and hats. Peeta sets his bag down on the ground for a moment while he removes his coat, tying it around his waist. I keep mine on, but open it to let the fresh breeze in. Behind us we hear the sound of melted water running down from the roof of the school building and down on the ground below. It's one of my favourite sounds, I think to myself. A sure-fire sign that the days of winter are numbered and more food will be available to us soon.

"I love spring," I say with a pleased sigh. "It's probably my favourite time of year."

"Yeah, mine too," says Peeta. "I love the smells, I love the sound of dripping water… Most of all I love the colours. You know, that especially bright shade of green when the grass is new, and the leaves are new… And all the flowers when they begin to bloom."

"When I was a kid my father used to bring me spring flowers for my birthday," I tell him, smiling faintly at the memory. It's not something I allow myself to think about very often.

"Oh yeah? When is your birthday?"

"Early May."

I'm not interested in talking about my birthday, so instead I tell him the story of the time I shot a deer just in time for Prim's, how Gale and I lugged it all the way back to town and how I ended up buying her a goat for a present.

"Yeah?" he says with a chuckle once I've finished telling the story, then coughing twice into his closed fist. "I've got to tell you, I've got  _two_  older siblings and I've never gotten anything as fancy as a goat for my birthday."

"Don't make fun," I scowl, to which he immediately shakes his head and waves his hand.

"No, no, no, no. I'm not making fun. I'm being honest, here. I would have loved a goat for a present. They're useful animals and they probably smell better and are less messy than the pigs we keep. Plus they're not exactly cheap, so it's a valuable gift in more ways than one." He gives me a crooked grin. "Best thing I ever got for my birthday was when my oldest brother had finished school and gave me all his pencils and a few sheets of white paper so that I could draw. It was a great gift, one I've used many times – pencils, that is. Not nearly as valuable as a goat though."

My expression has turned from a scowl to something far friendlier, even if I'm not smiling. I imagine Scotti Mellark handing his younger brother a set of worn, used pencils and I picture Peeta's happiness in getting them. I agree with him that it's not a  _valuable_  gift. Scotti had them in his possession anyway and you can't contribute to your household through them. Perhaps if Peeta lived in the Capitol and could sell his work for money but that's far from the case here. But all the same, there was thought behind the present – a big brother knowing his little brother loves to draw and giving him something to that end. It's sweet.

Peeta gets a look of nostalgia on his face.

"Actually, when I was very little, and Scotti finished first grade… he gave me his crayons and the last five pages of a notebook, so that I could draw. Our parents were furious, felt it was a waste of expensive school paraphernalia. They were right, of course. I mean, I was not even two years old, so talk about throwing pearls for swine. So they took them back. I don't remember any of this, naturally, but I've been told about it." I'm surprised to hear this story, and even more surprised that he tells it in such an afterthought-like manner. It must be because he was too little to remember any of it, otherwise I'm sure it would have been a memory that stood out for him. The practical side of me has to agree with his parents, but the older sibling-side of me understands Scotti completely. "I suppose I could draw a picture of a goat and give to one of my brothers…" muses Peeta, setting aside this second story and returning to the topic of birthday presents. He squints as we turn a corner and step out into a patch of sunlight coming from between two of the houses. "It's the thought that counts, am I right?"

"I'll let you borrow Lady, if you like," I offer. "To model for you."

He grins and begins to say something, but my name suddenly spoken in Gale's voice cuts him off and catches us both off guard. We stop and look ahead to find Gale perched on a meter-high brick wall separating a private garden from the street. He's dressed in all new miner's overalls, so vibrant in their colour compared to the old, worn ones, and the sight catches me off guard even further. It's the first time in probably twenty years that the miners have been allowed work clothes fresh from the manufacturer's but it's at least five years later than it ought to have been. Some men and women have been going down in the mines with overalls full of holes in them and the worn status of the garments has made even the Capitol-born overseer decide it's time for an upgrade. I suspect even people like that realize that there's only so much mileage you can get from a garment, especially one subjected to the harsh, damp conditions down in the mines. Not wanting to let an opportunity go to waste there is a camera crew in town to get pictures and footage of the momentarily pristine looking workers to showcase for those two or three souls in the Capitol who might worry that some poor fellow is toiling under difficult conditions to bring them electricity and heat. Gale has been selected as part of the group they are photographing out in the sunlight – in itself a ridiculous backdrop for showcasing miner's overalls. It's not difficult to see why he was chosen, what with his handsome face and strong physique. I bet the women in the Capitol find it a very appealing picture indeed. He told me about this yesterday, but I wasn't expecting to run into him.

"Gale…" I say, not able to hide my surprise at his appearance. "Gosh, look at you… You look…"

"Handsome? Sexy?" He waggles an eyebrow at me suggestively and then shakes his head with a chuckle. "Those seem to be two of the very few adjectives this Capitol crew is familiar with. There's also…  _manly_." He says the word with a lot of zest and in a good impression of a Capitol accent. I bet he's heard it over and over and over today.

From the corner of my eye I see Peeta glancing at me and then towards Gale before turning his eyes somewhere else. I feel a bit awkward, truth be told, standing here with the two of them like this. Lately I don't like to think about both of them in the same context if I can avoid it. It doesn't seem to mash very well in my mind.

Gale hops down from the wall and walks over to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in for a hug though refraining from kissing me hello, for which I'm thankful since we're in public. Peeta takes a step to the side to give us room and I swallow, not sure how to behave. We were in the middle of a conversation and I should say something to him before we part ways but I'm not quite sure what. Should I introduce him to Gale? They already know each other, or know  _of_  each other at least. Would they find it strange to speak to one another outside of the few times they've exchanged words during our trading with the baker? One is my boyfriend and the other my school husband. One wants to build a future with me and the other spends an hour a week pretending that he's already doing exactly that. I feel like I'm in the middle of a very odd and ill-defined triangular equation, which isn't helped one iota by the boyfriend harbouring some level of jealousy towards the pretend-husband, believing him to have feelings for me. Said pretend-husband is very special to me, albeit for reasons not related to romantic relationships, but the boyfriend has no idea about any of the events that transpired that day in the rain, when I was on the brink of giving up and fading away.

Gale pulls back from the hug and rests his forehead to mine for a second before he pulls away a little bit further.

"Done with school for the day, I take it?"

"Yeah, we were… we were heading home actually."

"I wish I could say the same," sighs Gale. "We're on a thirty-minute break while the camera crew enjoys a sit down with coffee and some pastries. Apparently they can't work for more than three hours without a meal break of some form. Not that I'm complaining about my allotted work assignment for the day, mind you. I'm without question one of the luckiest men in the entire Seam today."

At the mention of pastries he casts a look at Peeta. No doubt the pastries came from the Mellark bakery; I have a hard time believing they would cart that sort of thing with them all the way across Panem when there's a perfectly good bakery here in the district. There's a moment of uncomfortable silence, as if neither one of us knows what to say or do next. Then Peeta steps closer and extends his right hand to Gale.

"We've never been formally introduced, though we've met when you've come to trade with my father," he says, displaying one of his friendly smiles. "I'm Peeta Mellark. Katniss' friend from school. Well, her project partner."

"Pleased to meet you," says Gale, a touch reserved but he sometimes can be with strangers. He doesn't sound unkind or anything like that and shakes Peeta's hand with a nod while his other hand comes to wrap around my waist. "Gale Hawthorne. Katniss' boyfriend."

"Right." Their hands part and Peeta shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Katniss has told me so much about you."

I have? I don't recall talking much about Gale to Peeta. Perhaps it's just a polite phrase he thinks he should utter, maybe even a reflex. Or maybe he figures since I talk very little to begin with I've proportionally talked a lot about Gale. I look down at my feet, studying the toe of my boot as it draws patterns on the slushy snow, wondering to myself what all those things I've apparently told Peeta about Gale might be.

"So how is the project going?" asks Gale casually.

"It's going good," says Peeta lightly. "Only a few weeks left now."

"That must be a relief. It sounds ridiculous to me that they're dragging it out for so long this year. When I did it, it was only a couple of weeks. What's the point of this marathon version? I know Katniss can't wait to be done with it and I'm sure you feel the same way."

I look up at him and then over at Peeta, feeling like that was an unnecessary remark. I'm sure he meant nothing by it, but he made it sound like I'm longing for the day when I don't have to be partnered with Peeta anymore and that's plain rude, not to mention untrue. I just barely resist the urge to elbow Gale in the side and instead I try to catch Peeta's eye, but he gives another smile, less genuine this time, and looks in the direction of the bakery.

"Well it was great meeting you," he says, looking back at Gale. "I need to be going. Visitors from the Capitol feasting on pastries more than once a day? There's got to be a lot of work to be done at home, so I can't linger."

"It was good meeting you too," says Gale. "Don't waste your best ingredients on these clowns." He then turns and kisses the top of my head. "What about you, Catnip, you want to stay and keep me company until their little pastry break is over? We can talk about our plans for this evening."

I didn't know we had plans for this evening but that's probably just me not having paid attention again. All the same I can't fight the feeling that he dropped that line for Peeta's benefit, not mine. I keep my eyes on Peeta, wanting to meet his before he goes but he only gives me a brief glace as he bids me goodbye.

"Thanks for today, Katniss. I'll see you at school."

"Bye," I say, feeling disgruntled as I watch him walking away. The moment he's gone around a corner and disappeared from sight I turn to Gale, ready to snarl at him for being rude. Peeta looked put down when he left, and he doesn't deserve that. But the smile on Gale's face is bright and I can't seem to bring myself to say anything to take that smile away. Especially since we're out in public. Instead I focus on something else he said. "We had plans for tonight?"

He shrugs, wrapping his other arm around me as well, making me scowl and pull away from him. I still don't like it when he does that in broad daylight out among people. If my protest bothers him he doesn't let it show.

"No…" he says. "Nothing we've specifically talked about. I thought I would stop by, though. We could go for a walk…" His hand finds mine, his fingers playing with the tips of my own. "Perhaps sit at the Meadow for a while… Enjoy the fact that spring – the season of love – is here…Stay until the stars come out…"

"I have an exam on Wednesday," I say. "I don't think I can spend the entire evening waiting around for the stars to appear."

"Katniss I wasn't thinking we would just be sitting around staring at the sky," smiles Gale. "There were other, more fun activities I had in mind – unless we decide it's a good time to have that talk. But if you have a test coming up I understand why you don't want to be out for long. Spare me an hour or two? I know you would rather study my mouth than study for a test."

I can't very well say no to devoting an hour or two to him. I force myself to smile slightly as I nod and wrap my arms around his neck for a hug. I hate to admit it even to myself but I'm not all that excited about the prospect of spending a couple of hours this evening sitting at the Meadow with Gale. I'm worried that it won't just be about spending time together, especially with what he implied a minute ago. And spring being the season of love – what is all that about? It sounded quite ridiculous coming out of his mouth. As my graduation and my final Reaping draw nearer Gale's plans and hopes for our future together seem to surface and grow, even though I won't be nineteen until May of  _next year_ , meaning that even if I couldn't wait to have a toasting with Gale I'd still be  _forced_  to wait until I got old enough. Isn't it enough that I spend so much of my school time thinking about the troubles of marriage? Do I really have to waste my spare time on it too?

* * *

Gale picks me up fifteen minutes after I finished my meagre dinner and we walk together towards the Meadow. The mood is far from what he was hoping for, yesterday's bright spirits blown away. Having had some time to think back on the events earlier in the day I've become quite irritated with him for the way he behaved around Peeta. I don't understand it. Why did he have to be rude? What has Peeta ever done to him? Must this be an issue all the time? Is being born a merchant really such a crime? It's not like Peeta had any choice in the matter, and quite frankly I believe he would have preferred being born to a nice and caring Seam woman instead of the merchant witch who hits him and whose ridiculous expectations he can probably never live up to. It's not like being a townie is even that fortunate a lot in life. I can understand Gale hating Capitol citizens based merely on their social standing – those are the people who make the Hunger Games a huge success year after year, seemingly unable to comprehend that there's something wrong about the murder of 23 children on a yearly basis. But merchants? They live under the Capitol's thumb as much as we do, have their slips in the reaping bowls same as us, and as I have come to learn they don't have  _that_  much more to eat or all that great living standards either. They may be safe from the mines but that isn't their choice or creed anyway. And they depend on other people frequenting their businesses to have money coming in, whereas coalminers at the very least always have a steady – if meagre – income.

As soon as I stepped outside my front door I crossed my arms under my chest, sending a clear signal that I don't want to walk arm in arm or hand in hand or anything like that. Not that I normally agree to that in public, but I want a bit of distance between us. My sullen mood is not lost on Gale, though he seems utterly clueless as to what brought it on. He tries to make pleasant conversation, telling numerous supposedly funny stories of his day as a model and the wacky hijinks the Capitol crew were up to. I know he's exaggerating the stories, attempting to give them a funnier edge to improve my mood but all it accomplishes is to aggravate me. His voice becomes strained after a while, the false mirth more difficult to uphold. I wait until he takes a few seconds to breathe in-between funny stories, and then I give him an icy stare.

"What was with you earlier today?"

"What do you mean?" he asks, a frown appearing on his face as the cheerful façade immediately falls to the wayside.

"You were rude. You were rude to Peeta, for no good reason."

His eyes darken and so does his whole expression. I can see his hands clenching into fists and that he momentarily clenches his jaw. This only irritates me further. The reaction seems extremely out of proportion.

"I don't get you, Catnip," he says through gritted teeth. "Why do you care the slightest bit about that guy and his feelings? He ought to be nothing to you."

"Why?" I challenge. "Because he's a merchant? That doesn't make him  _evil_  or an  _enemy_. You do realize he's a  _person_ , too, and that it's possible to offend him or hurt him? Don't you realize his life can be pretty rough at times, too?"

"Oh I'm sure it's ghastly being sent to bed without supper when he misbehaves," says Gale, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You have nothing in common with him. He's not like us. He doesn't know what it's like to be from the Seam."

"I don't care," I shrug. "I've been friends with Madge for years and that doesn't bother you. But because I don't ignore my project partner the moment school is done for that day you lose the ability to behave like a civilized adult?"

"I wasn't that rude," scoffs Gale. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking at me defiantly. "In fact, how was I rude at all? And I don't  _like_  that you're friends with Madge – I think she's stuck-up and spoiled."

"Wow," I say, exhaling in a huff. "Listen to you. You  _know_  neither of those things are true. What is  _with_  you today?"

"I don't like that you are friends with him," says Gale matter-of-factly.

"Well, tough," I shoot back. "I have no intention of choosing my friends based on your approval."

"I didn't say you ought to," argues Gale with frustration. "Have I told you not to be friends with him? I'm just telling you I don't like it and that I don't get why you care about him at all."

"Because he wasn't born in the Seam that immediately disqualifies him from being a decent person?" I challenge.

Gale bites his bottom lip and takes a deep breath, exhaling in a sigh. His features soften a bit and his hands unclench.

"Okay, I know I'm being a bit… unreasonable," he admits. "But forgive me, I spent the day with stuck-up, obnoxious Capitol people who have never had a real problem in their entire lives."

"And that is somehow Peeta's fault?" All these years I've been friends with Madge and Gale has never been this out of sorts about it but a few short months of getting to know Peeta and he gets all bent out of shape? If this is about jealousy it angers me on several fronts. Not only do I find jealousy petty and highly unattractive, I am insulted that he might think I would cheat on him. What was it Peeta said just a few months ago? It shouldn't matter to you if someone else is interested in your partner; what matters is who your partner is interested in. And if the answer isn't you then I'm not sure a third party is to blame.

"Many guys would have a problem with their girlfriend getting a new best friend who happens to be a  _guy_ ," says Gale, confirming my suspicions. His hand lands on the small of my back as he directs me into a back alley, leading us to a less trafficked route to the Meadow. "Especially when that guy is pretending to be her  _husband_."

"For a school project," I sigh. "It's not like he goes around pretending we're married when we're not working on the damn thing. And  _best_  friend? Gale, you are my best friend. Or at least you're supposed to be, not that you act like it."

"I'm pretty sure he likes you. And  _not_  just as a friend."

"So what, Gale?" By this point I'm practically seething and Gale has to shush me since we're still out amongst other people, even though hardly anyone is within sight. People might still hear us through open windows, I suppose. I lower my voice but speak through gritted teeth. "You think if he asked me to I'd fall into his arms and make out with him? Thanks for having faith in me."

"I do have faith in you," he backtracks. "I'm not saying I'm being totally rational here, but love isn't rational." He quiets for a moment, biting his lip again. "I don't like it when you side with him over me, or chew me out for maybe being a little bit rude to him. Oughtn't you to be on  _my_  side – as my girlfriend  _and_  my best friend? I won't apologise for feeling that way. I think I'm entitled to feel that way, actually."

"Maybe? A little bit? He's done nothing to deserve that treatment, and being your friend – and girlfriend – doesn't mean never calling you out when I feel you're wrong."

"Yeah but  _why_  do you care?"

"Common decency?" I suggest, but the look on Gale's face tells me that won't be enough. I suppose he asks a good question. When did I come to care that much about whether or not someone is rude to Peeta? But I already know the answer. My anger washes away as I revisit old memories and a chill runs through me, making me wrap my arms tighter around myself. "He saved my life."

"What?" Under different circumstances the shocked – and disbelieving – tone in his voice would be funny, I suppose.

I feel my bottom lip tremble as I revisit the memories of that time in my life, at once the worst but also setting me down a path that I'm very glad I took. To be a huntress and a gatherer and to support my family to the best of my ability, those are all things I am very proud of. And all of it because of an eleven-year-old boy who took a beating for my sake without even knowing me as a person.

"It was a long time ago," I say. "But still… too near for me to be able to talk about it. We were just kids, but he… Well he did something that, without which, I wouldn't be here today." I swallow hard. "Even worse – neither would Prim." I look up at Gale, praying that he won't demand more details. I haven't been able to breach the subject with Peeta yet, and I cannot speak to anyone else about it before I speak with him. "I owe him so much. Prim…"

There is worry in his grey eyes, and no trace of disbelief or questioning of my words.

"Katniss, what happened to you, that you can't even talk about it now, what I assume must be years later?" His voice is gentle, caring. "I never had any idea."

My bottom lip begins to tremble even worse, as if I were about to start to cry, and I steel myself to prevent that from happening, closing my eyes. I feel Gale's arms around me and his lips press a kiss to my brow. It's a chaste gesture, one that feels like something he might have done even before we started dating. He pulls me closer and I wrap my arms around him in return, pressing myself against his broad chest, inhaling his scent of wood smoke. I don't remember the last time I felt this good in his arms.

* * *

We end up making it to the Meadow mere minutes before the sun has set. We climb onto the one large rock in the field, allowing us to get away from the snows that still cover the ground. Snows which began to melt during the day and are wholly unpleasant to sit amongst now that it's evening. The rock may be hard and cold, but at least it's  _less_  cold, and it's dry.

I lean back on my elbows, gazing up at the darkening sky above. I'm not all that used to sunsets. I've seen countless sunrises in my days, oftentimes with Gale at my side out in our glade in the woods, but when the sun is going down I'm mostly busy either at school or at home, depending on the time of year. The sun seemed to set fast tonight with no beautiful spectrum of colours. It's become cloudy and we won't be able to see the stars if the overcast lingers. I wonder if Peeta is looking out the window, hoping to catch the setting sun before it's all the way below the horizon. I wonder if he's disappointed that the sky didn't become painted in orange and pink and purple tonight.

Gale lies down beside me, head resting on his hands. He comments on what a relief it is that spring is upon us, and although I've felt exactly that since yesterday, the feeling has suddenly left and been replaced by dread. Ever since the age of twelve I've longed for this year, praying I could hold out and that I would be fortunate enough not to have my name drawn by Effie Trinket. If I could only survive my seventh and final reaping I would be home free, and life could actually begin. Now that the year has arrived things look so different.

I still have one final reaping looming over me, as well as the four more years Prim has got left, years I try my best not to think about. Even if I survive this year too it no longer seems like the world is opening up to me. Adulthood comes with far too many responsibilities and chores and obligations. Getting a job. Bringing home income without the aid of tesserae. And a whole long lifetime to live, a prospect that seems strangely empty to me now even though achieving that has been the goal of surviving the reapings. Year in and year out of what? Living with my mother, watching my sister grow up and get married and move out of the house? Or do I do what Gale wants me to do, what I've come to realize people around me expect me to do, and get married? That would open up a whole new world of worry and possible heartbreak via the children that would inevitably come. I cannot imagine Gale would be willing to have a sexless marriage with me. I doubt any man would agree to something like that. Nor any woman, for that matter. Truthfully I'm not even sure  _I_  would want something like that, if it weren't for those children I cannot bear to have.

Next to me Gale turns to lie on his side, his arm moving around my waist and grapping my hip gently. He nudges me to lie on my side as well, facing him. He then wastes no time claiming my mouth, moaning softly as his tongue parts my lips and his hand nestles in my hair. While his tongue slowly tangles with my own I keep thinking about what life is going to entail once I'm free from the Hunger Games and no longer have to go to school ten months out of the year. Is  _this_  something that's going to be a normal part of my life? Kissing? It can be kind of nice, but I don't find it to be the most incredible thing there is. I much prefer just talking, sharing our thoughts, or even going hunting together. We seem to be doing an awful lot of kissing these days and an awful little of everything we used to do before. Again I think of what Gale might expect from me if I were to agree to have a toasting. I will not bend on the subject of children, not for anything or anyone. Would that really be acceptable to Gale? I come to think of something Peeta said a long while ago, about couples who get married and purposely stay childless. Can you do that even in the Seam? Could that be an option for us? Would I want that – marriage under such circumstance?

After a few minutes Gale pulls away. I look into his eyes and am surprised to not see the hooded, intense gaze I most often find in them after we've kissed. Instead he looks focused in an entirely different way, studying me with the hint of a scowl.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"In your mind. You may physically be right here with me, but I feel a bit like I'm kissing someone who's drunk. You don't seem to be aware at all that I am kissing you."

"Well you're not, right now" I say, sitting up and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I can't seem to get used to the saliva part of kissing. It's so slobbery.

"You know what I mean, Catnip." His tone is gentle, if somewhat frustrated, and he sits up too and wraps his arms around his knees. "I'm just trying to understand. Won't you tell me? You used to be able to tell me things." His hand finds mine and gives it a little squeeze. I begin to feel very guilty though I'm not entirely sure why. "I want us to be able to talk to each other. Like we always have in the past."

"I really want us to talk to each other too. We don't do that very often these days."

"So what, then?" he asks. "Where were you just now?"

"I'm just… thinking about summer," I say with a sigh. "About what I will do if I don't land a job."

"Same as you've done every other summer since we first met. Hunt and gather and provide for your family. You won't need to have employment until the fall."

"At which point there won't be a lot of jobs left, all the good ones having gone to my former classmates who snapped them up the day after graduation."

"I see your point," he nods. "Do you have any ideas about where you might work?"

My smile becomes a little bit more genuine and I squeeze his hand in mine. This is exactly the Gale I want to be out here with. The supportive Gale I can bounce ideas off of. The one who might help me find a solution to my predicament.

"I've considered asking for a job at the butcher shop," I say. "Only…"

"Only what? They're not hiring?"

"They might be," I shrug. "It's just, I'm not so sure that's where I want to work. When we began the project in the fall I thought it would be a great position for me but now I don't feel that way. I want to  _hunt_. The thrill of the chase, the excitement in being rewarded for my skills, the fresh outdoors. Spending all day indoors cutting up animal carcasses, the vast majority of which I'll neither get to eat nor trade, doesn't entice me."

"So what other jobs have you considered? How many places in town would even be willing to hire a Seam girl?"

"I don't think that would be an issue."

"I do. People in town, they think us Seam folks belong in the mines. Where they don't have to see us."

"Gale that's not fair," I object gently. "If that were the case I don't think they would have allowed me to get a town job for the project, given how madly in love with  _realism_  our teachers have been."

"Betting my income on the realism of a school project seems a bit naïve," says Gale dryly, making me scowl.

"It's not  _your_  income we're talking about," I point out. "Besides, you're being narrow-minded. Not everyone in town is stuck-up. Also I have merchant blood in me."

"Yeah but you look Seam."

"I'm well aware of that. I don't think that would be a deal-breaker. Not for every shopkeeper and tradesman in District 12."

"Maybe not per se but when you're competing against blonde-haired, blue-eyed townsfolks who are part of their own group it will be a hindrance to you. I guarantee you that, Catnip."

"So you're against the idea of me even trying to get a job outside the mines?" I ask with indignation.

"I just don't want to see you get hurt, honey. I know you're an independent person but that doesn't mean I don't want to protect you from hurt if I can."

"I've got thick enough skin to handle it," I assure him.

"You do," he acknowledges with a smile. He leans in, brushing his nose against mine. "Have I told you that your determination, your fire and refusal to be held back is one of the reasons why I'm in love with you?"

"You…" I begin, not sure what to say. That he's infatuated with me I already knew. That his feelings had deepened to being  _in love_  is something I did not know. I don't know what to say in return, and my state of mind must be written on my face. He gives me a soft peck on the lips.

"Yes, I am in love with you. You don't have to be in love with me back – not yet. Just tell me that you care about me as more than just a friend. That's all I need."

"Of course I do."

It's true. He is far more than just a friend and I do love him, but how far I've come on the path of romantic love I can't quite say. It seems we're bickering too much these days for me to be able to ascertain any such feelings. I wish we could have a period of some peace and quiet and just  _exist_  together, putting all pressure and plans for the future and such to the wayside for a bit.

There is a voice inside my head, growing stronger every week, that tells me that the trial period our relationship has been thus far must soon come to an end. I need to make my decision soon – do I commit myself to being Gale's girlfriend, having begun to fall for him, or am I simply not capable of allowing myself to feel that way about anyone? He deserves to know for sure as soon as possible, especially if he really is  _in love_  with me. One important question still lingers though, and that is if he can accept that I don't want marriage and a family, even if we were to fall madly in love with one another. We can't go all our lives arguing over it over and over. Even if I realize that I have fallen in love with him too, will he actually want me if he knows that marriage and sex is off the table?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, depending on how things go when I write the next chapter, it might include the end of the project! Which would be good news because I promise that the pace will pick up after that point. Ironically the project itself seems to have pulled the rest of the story to a halt several times, since I wanted to cover K&P working on the whole thing (and there are things there that set up later events), but that meant that it's taken forever to get anywhere with the rest of the story.
> 
> So what's coming up after the project ends? Well within three chapters or so Katniss and Peeta will be out of school and their final reaping will have arrived. Galeniss is about to reach its end as well, though how exactly I won't reval just yet. I hope you'll all stick with me for just a little while longer... =)
> 
> Thanks to you all for reading! =)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2017 is finally ending, and with that, I figured I'd post one more chapter of this story. Here's hoping I will have more time to update in 2018.

When Sunday arrives I am relieved that I will be spending the entire day working on the project with Peeta. He arrives at exactly nine o'clock, punctual and proper, and greets my mother and sister with his usual polite kindness. This time around he brought a large loaf of walnut bread, and dismisses all my objections that he shouldn't give us things like that for free.

"Think of it as a thank you," he says, smiling gently. "For looking after me the other week, when I wasn't feeling well. You owe me nothing for the bread, if anything I still owe you."

"Well, alright…" I agree grudgingly, more for the sake of Prim than anything else. "We'll call it even."

"Good! Then that's settled," he says, making sure the paper bag with the bread ends up in Prim's hands and not mine. Maybe he's concerned that I'll try and sneak it back into his backpack if he hands it to me.

He follows me into the kitchen and at my urging pulls out a chair and takes a seat. I'm glad my mother and sister didn't follow us in here because I could use a moment alone with him.

"I just wanted to say…" I begin awkwardly as I pull out my own chair. "I want to apologise for Gale. He was rude to you the other day. He's not…really like that, he's just…"

"Katniss it's fine," says Peeta dismissively.

"Why do you say that?" I question. "Someone you don't know is rude to you and you just say it's  _fine_?"

He shrugs.

"I've got tough skin."

"Well all the same…" I look down at the table for a second, then back up at him. He's unpacking his bag, just sending brief glances my way. "I'm sorry for what he said, and how he said it. I hope you know… that while I think this project has often been a huge pain, I've very much enjoyed working together with you." I swallow nervously. "I'm glad we're partners."

Peeta smiles faintly.

"Thank you."

We end up spending the entire day together, from nine in the morning until seven in the afternoon. At lunchtime Prim, my mother and I all try to serve the walnut bread with the meagre soup my mother has prepared, but Peeta won't hear of it. He says he would feel too awkward about it, that the bread is meant for us, not him, and that it would be too weird if we ate from the bread and he did not, so it would be better if we saved it and enjoyed it just the three of us.

"You really are annoyingly pig-headed sometimes," I sigh, moving our schoolwork out of the way so that we can have space to eat at the kitchen table.

"Yeah," he grinningly agrees. "And you  _like_  me for it."

"Just shut up and eat," I retort, but I can't hide the smile on my face.

All through the rest of the day I can't escape the notion of how much more comfortable I am in Peeta's company than I am in Gale's nowadays. How did it end up this way? Gale is one of the few people I've ever felt truly comfortable with, someone who has been my closest friend and confidant, a person I thought would always be close to me. Now, because of the whole dating debacle, things have changed, and not for the better.

I cannot deny that in becoming Gale's girlfriend I've seen sides in him that I never knew existed before. This jealousy he displays, the apparent refusal to acknowledge that I  _mean it_  when I say I don't want marriage and children, the way he seems to believe I share his feelings exactly… All of it combined has somehow turned him into a person I feel less comfortable with than I do with a merchant boy I had barely spoken to until a few months ago. Peeta always makes it so easy to be in his company. He doesn't make unreasonable demands of me, gives me all the space I need to be myself, makes little jokes to relax me and listens when I need a sounding board.

I observe him on the sly as he sits right beside me, working with me on the part of the assignment that we need to write together. When we're both leaned over the books our forearms touch, and I can feel a whiff of cinnamon and dill, a scent I've never felt on anyone else. Gale smells of more earthly things, like wood and coal and snow-damped leather. It's funny how their scents alone reveal the difference not only in their milieu but in their very characters. Gale practical and earthly and focused on survival. Peeta gentle, seeing a world of colours that I cannot even imagine, and with the time and sustenance to look on things beyond the basics of survival.

Sitting close to Peeta this way reminds me of all those times Gale and I found ourselves a comfortable tree to wait for the electricity in the fence to go out. I never gave much thought to those times before, but now I feel deeply nostalgic for them. Gale and I were so good together then. It was nice to sit there with him and wait, nothing to do to pass the time but to talk to one another. We were so close then. Why aren't we now? We ought to be closer than ever.

And thinking of how Gale has changed in these past months, I can't help but wonder about Peeta. If I were to date  _him_ , would I find him to change, too? Peeta is a fundamentally different person than Gale, but all the same, there are sides to my boyfriend that I never knew existed until he became my  _boyfriend_. Who's to say there aren't such sides to kind-natured, polite, patient Peeta, as well?

* * *

Come Monday Peeta and I are pretty much on track with our project work, having ample time to finish up everything we need to do together. There is, unfortunately, the matter of the essays we have to write, but even though Peeta, only half in jest, suggests that we help each other out with our evaluations of one another, all of this work is such that can be done on our own, in our own homes.

To both mine and his surprise we put the finishing touches to our joint work when little more than half an hour of our allotted school time remains. For a moment I'm filled with excitement and a sense of accomplishment, and when Peeta grins widely at me I can't do anything but mirror his expression.

"Hey!" he cheers. "Well done, us!"

He holds up both his hands and before I can think about what I'm doing I've held up my own and smacked them against his, feeling his fingers bend down and give my hands a brief squeeze before he pulls apart. We lower our hands and I look around, feeling a bit embarrassed, noting that a few heads have turned in our direction at the sound of our hands slapping together.

"Well that's enough with the levity," I mumble. With a deep sigh I open a new page in my notebook and tap my pencil against the paper. "We've got an essay and an evaluation to write. Or at least I do. You've probably already gotten it done."

"Are you kidding?" he asks, scoffing and laughing at the same time. "Barely begun."

"Writing it down, maybe. I have no doubt you've got it all mapped out in that head of yours."

"I'm a painter, not a writer." He opens a page in his own notebook and I can see a few paragraphs written down, but no more than half a page. He sighs wistfully. "Or at least I would be, if I had the means."

I make no further comment, focusing instead on trying to get my own work started. Like I usually do with these things I begin by listing the things I want to include before I get started on trying to formulate it all into decent sentences. Peeta just seems to write whatever comes into his head at any given second but his work is always very good, which is why I'm convinced he's already got the finished thing in his mind and is just putting it onto paper.

Our little bubble of peace and quiet is suddenly interrupted when a girl comes up and wraps an arm around Peeta's neck from behind. It's Belle, and she's grinning as she tousles his hair and ignores his protests at her ministrations. As discreetly as possible I watch them on the sly, annoyed by my own curiosity. Peeta turns his head up towards her and smiles. I note that they don't kiss.

"Hard at work, I see," he teases.

"Oh, you know me," she giggles, the sound far more cheerful than any I could produce. Then her attention unexpectedly turns to me. "Hey Katniss!"

"Oh… Hey," I answer back, lifting my eyes from my work, nervous that she might want to chat with me. Does she dislike the fact that I'm working with Peeta – whom I presume is her boyfriend, though neither one of them has said so openly and I've heard no gossip to that effect. Being in a relationship of my own since a few months back with nobody at school knowing about it except for our siblings – and Peeta – I can't dismiss the possibility just because they're not open about it.

Luckily, she doesn't seem to want to speak to me any further, even though her greeting was sincerely pleasant. She turns her attention back to Peeta, moving her arm away from around his neck and placing both hands on his shoulders, tapping her fingers in an unfamiliar rhythm.

"I was just stopping by to see if you have any thoughts about this weekend."

"Nah, not really," he shrugs, his head still tilted back in order to look at her while they speak. The angle looks uncomfortable.

"Whatever you want to do is fine by me. How do you feel about it?"

"I feel the same way you feel – how do you feel?"

"No, really – whatever you want is fine."

This goes on for some time. I find it highly obnoxious – good grief, I pray I never become that cutesy, nor that indecisive. If I had the faintest idea what they are really talking about I would have offered a suggestion, just to get them to stop. Instead I try to tune them out, which works so-so.

"Maybe we can continue this later," Peeta finally suggests, mirth in his voice. "We're annoying the hell out of Katniss."

"… What?" Though I'm caught off guard by his remark, it luckily comes off as surprise at being spoken to.

"You're scowling," he smiles. "And you've got that look on your face like you're rolling your eyes on the inside."

"You want to watch me rolling my eyes on the outside?" I reply dryly, embarrassed that my thoughts were so plainly written on my face.

"We'll pick this up after your practice," says Belle, running her hand through his hair again, making his curls stand every which way. "Oops. Messed up your hair."

"Get lost," he barks, but he follows it up with a laugh that matches hers when she just apologised for something she clearly did intentionally.

"Remember now, work hard, not smart!"

"It's the other way around, stupid."

"Oh  _now_  you tell me."

They share one more look, full of smiles, and I feel like I'm missing out on more than one private joke between them. My scowl deepens, and I try even harder to ignore the two of them, even though she's walking away, back to her own table. Once she's gone Peeta turns back to me, still chuckling warmly.

"Sorry about that. It's always been our thing. Mutual indecisiveness."

I say nothing, but think to myself that it's a little sickening. In part because I have no doubt it stems from them both being just that nice, always willing to defer to someone else's opinion or desires. People like that don't tend to do well in life. They tend to be run over and taken advantage of. And they are so very infuriating to compare yourself to, because no matter what, they always come off as the better person. I know I'll never be anywhere near that nice. I suppose they deserve each other. I just hope they don't end up dragging each other down.

* * *

Over the next several days I have no time to contemplate the state of my relationship with Gale, or even be out in the woods and hunt, the last of which especially frustrates me as springtime is a good time to be out there. Sure, it may still be the early days of spring and the snows have only begun to melt, but I could still benefit from the tranquillity of the woods and the sights and the smells… Just getting to be there and exist in all of that would do me wonders right now. Instead I'm stuck inside writing that god-awful essay and struggling to write the ridiculously long evaluation I have to complete. The last one, in particular, is hard to get done. I want to do Peeta justice, want to give him good feedback, knowing that it's probably the only real way I will have of thanking him for all his hard work, his support and his friendship over these past months. The only way that will be of any use to him, at least. A good evaluation might go a long way for his end grade.

I'm so caught up with the work, and hating it so much, that I spend the last week of the project cursing under my breath, writing draft after draft on paper I really can't afford to waste – another reason why it's idiotic that these things have to be so long – and biting my nails down to practically nothing. Gale gets grumpy when I blow him off for the second Sunday in a row, but he seems to brighten a little when he realizes the project will be over in just one more day. For my part, I spend that last day struggling way into the evening, putting the finishing touches to Peeta's evaluation just after eight o'clock. I lean back and make a face, my neck aching, my right-hand aching, my shoulders aching… And it's not until then that it hits me again – this is really the end of it. Well, not  _really_ , we still have one more half-session tomorrow, but for all intents and purposes we're done. And the feeling that hits me is one of melancholy and emptiness. All this over a stupid  _school project_. And the partner I've worked on it with.

* * *

So it finally arrives. The very last time that Peeta and I gather up our books from the previous class, converge at the door, make a quick stop at our lockers and then walk towards the assembly room. I feel oddly emotional; it's almost impossible to believe that our partnership is only about half an hour away from its finale. I've come to like these Monday afternoons in his company and the way our minds work well together whenever we have to be creative. I'm going to miss this. And him. Most of all him. This project could so easily have been months on end of desperately dull and seemingly pointless work together with somebody I have little to nothing in common with, and probably feeling embarrassed to let that person read my work. I am so utterly grateful that Peeta Mellark asked me to pick him as his partner. He saved me from what could have been the worst assignment in all my years of school, turning it instead to an exercise that was not only fun to work on a lot of the time, but from which I ended up learning a great deal.

"So how was your weekend?" asks Peeta as we walk to the assembly room. Five months ago I would have said he sounded just like normal, but I know him much better now, and I picked up on the hint in his voice that he's emotionally conflicted about all of this, too.

"Filled with schoolwork, mostly," I answer him, smiling slightly. "How was yours? Did you do… whatever it is you were talking about doing last week?"

"Yeah, but I'm not going to bore you with details." He lets out a short laugh. "And lucky me –  _this_  weekend Delly and I are visiting her senile seventy-year-old grandfather to help clean out his place, which looks like a  _pig sty_ , so that he can move in with her aunt and her family."

"Delly?"

"Delly Cartwright. We've been friends since we were kids, and she asked me to help out, and like a complete sucker I said yes. So I've got my pick of either scrubbing the apartment clean from top to bottom, or spend hours playing Go Fish with old Mr. Cartwright to keep him occupied." He rolls his eyes, but his smile is warm and friendly. "I really can't believe I agreed to help out, when I could have been…" He pauses when a group of people, neither of which seem to be watching where they're going as they talk amongst each other, walk right in-between us. Peeta and I both stop, waiting for the group to pass. When we continue walking he smirks. "Wonder if they'll end up walking straight into a wall or something," he comments. Then he chuckles. "That reminds me of a funny story – did I ever tell you about that time my brother was carrying a bowl of cake batter up in our living quarters, heading for the bakery kitchen, and tripped over the cat we had back then? Right at the top of the staircase, of course."

He tells the story in vivid detail, laughing at the memory, and I smile politely and try to laugh convincingly. Under other circumstances I have no doubt I would have found the story hilarious, but there's too much melancholy in me at the moment to fully appreciate it. The project ends within an hour. I won't get to listen to Peeta tell me stories anymore.

We spend our last thirty minutes of project work making pleasant small talk, and sharing several looks between us that tell me we are completely on the same page with how we are feeling. It's funny, because I can't describe my own feelings about it all, yet I still know without a doubt that Peeta feels the exact same way that I do. It ended up being such an easy, natural partnership with him. We bring out something in one another, something great within us both, and when those sides then come together we elevate our own work as well as each other.

I tried to write about this in my evaluation. I tried my best to explain how he's been encouraging and supportive, pressuring me to go the extra mile and do the best work I can while still giving me the space I need to develop on my own. I don't know if Peeta will get to read the evaluation or not. I hope he will. I spent hours finding the right words and I know that if I were to sit down with him right here, right now and attempt to tell it all to him face to face I wouldn't be able to. But in the written pages I was able to express myself far better than I ever could verbally, and I hope he gets to see it. I wrote it for him, after all, not for our teachers. We were tasked with including both praise and constructive criticism, and I found the last part to be the hardest. There were a few things I could think of that might need work or improvement, not even Peeta Mellark is perfect, but it was tough to express it without it without sounding mean. I most certainly don't  _want_  to sound mean. For the vast majority of our time working together I've thought of him as the perfect partner. And I'm really going to miss working with him, a thought that passes through my mind every five minutes it seems. Sometimes when our eyes meet I think he shares that feeling with me too.

I ended my evaluation of him with the very first thing that I wrote down on my initial draft: " _The ideal teammate or partner is, in my view, someone who will lift you up and bring out the best in you, always supporting you, but without letting you walk all over him or her. Someone able to stand their ground while also open to listening to the other's point of view, and skilled in the art of compromise. I've seen those qualities in Peeta Mellark over the course of these months, and it is my firm belief that not only will these qualities that he possesses make him into a good husband when, if, that day ever comes for him, but it will also make him a wonderful father. Even the most arduous task is made easier when the person you are handling the situation with is able to make you feel comfortable and confident. I want to thank Peeta Mellark for being such a good sport during this project, for helping me and for allowing me to help him, and I wish him all the best in the future. I have no doubt in my mind that he has everything it takes to be an ideal husband and father._ "

I came close to adding that whomever he marries will be a lucky girl, but that felt a bit too personal to write. As I was writing it down my mind went to the conversation we once had, during which I revealed that I don't want to have children. I recall Peeta expressing complete understanding for my point of view, and that he actually agreed with me in many ways. He said he wasn't sure if he wanted children, either. I find myself hoping that he will change his mind. I don't wish upon him the pain of being a father whose child ends up in the Hunger Games, but he is merchant, so the odds would be more in his children's favour. I know that people  _have_  to keep having children, or the human race would wither away, and that if everyone were as selfish as me humanity would be in big trouble. Peeta really ought to be someone who decides to go ahead and have babies. I can easily imagine him as the father of a litter of children, all of them blonde of hair and blue of eyes, all of them happy, all of them loved. Anyone who spends any amount of time with Peeta can see that he's got all the qualities to be a great parent. It seems so wrong for him to never become one. I bet he would love being one, too. I bet he would enjoy playing with his children, teaching them how to draw, singing nursery rhymes with them and clapping his hands as they sing along, his nice laughter blending with the pearly laughs of young children. I sincerely hope that I, in expressing my own viewpoints on the subject of procreation, haven't manage to convince him to reject the idea of fatherhood. After everything he's done for me, not just with the project but above all with the bread that day in the rain, it seems like the worst possible form of payment to dissuade him from something he is so clearly suited for.

"You okay?" he suddenly asks, and I look up to find his kind eyes studying me, his head tilted, and his lips formed into a gentle smile.

"Yeah," I say, surprised by the question. Of course I'm okay. It's just a school project coming to an end – one I dreaded before it began and oftentimes thought was ludicrous while it was going on. But when I bring the corners of my own mouth slightly upward I can see in Peeta's eyes that he's still feeling the same thing I'm feeling. An odd sense of loss, and of nostalgia for something that is about to be over. The project felt never-ending – how can it have come to an end so fast?

"It's going to be weird," he says, laughing softly. "You'll forgive me if I walk up to you by habit the same time every Monday for a few weeks and start pestering you about what you did over the weekend?"

"I can't believe you never grew tired of asking me that," I reply with a small laughter of my own. "I never once had an interesting answer."

"Sure you did. Your life is interesting to me."

"I admire you, you know. I've never had your ability to find what's interesting in the dullest people around me. It's like my world is terribly unimaginative compared to yours."

"You know, you shouldn't do that all the time," he tells me. "Put yourself down like that. I haven't known you for very long, but sometimes I wonder if the person you see when you look in the mirror is the same person I see sitting across the table right now."

What am I supposed to say to that? Sometimes he makes comments that flabbergast me, making me feel embarrassed and like a bit uncomfortable, even though I know he's trying to pay me a compliment. It's just that sometimes his compliments are… well, they're odd. Had it been any other merchant boy I would have been convinced he was trying to get me to the slag heap for some pretend-marital fun, but that's not Peeta's way.

"Have you ever thought that maybe you only see what I  _want_  you to see?" I manage to answer.

"No, I don't think that's it," he says with a carefree shrug, tearing a few pages from his notebook and stapling them together. Presumably it's either his essay or my evaluation. "When have you ever gone out of your way to present that kind of image of yourself here at school? It's one of the things I find refreshing about you. You are who you are, and the rest of us can either accept it or go about our business. You're not like all those others, girls and boys, who try to act overly friendly and perfect and whatnot, and then when you begin spending time with them it's like you meet an entirely different person."

Again he surprises me. Does he honestly believe what he just said? Does he really think I simply don't give a damn what people think of me? It's true that I've never gone out of my way to act like someone I'm not in order to gain friends, but part of that is because I wouldn't know where to even begin, and I'm a terrible actress. I don't particularly  _want_  to be seen as odd and sullen and withdrawn. I wish more people liked me, I just don't know how to make that happen. Gale likes me, and so does Madge, and I've always figured I can't be unsatisfied having those two people care about me for who I am. Madge is easily the best girl in my entire class, and Gale one of the best people I've ever known. Their good opinion of me is something to be proud of. How I somehow managed to get  _Peeta_  to like my company is beyond me, but he seems to like more or less everyone. I know that if I could be like him – kind and friendly and generous – I would want to be.

"You're not like that either," I point out. "You're just genuinely friendly, and a good person."

"Yeah, well…" he scoffs. "I may be more outgoing than you, but that doesn't necessarily make me a good person. I'm just good at knowing what sides of myself to show and what to hide."

"Now who's selling himself short?" I counter. "Come on, Peeta. I of all people know what you're like when it all comes down to it."

He pauses midway through tearing out another page and his mouth falls open slightly as his wide eyes meet mine. It's the first time I've ever made any direct allusion to our meeting that day in the rain six years ago but it's evident from his reaction that he hasn't forgotten, and that warms my heart to him even more. I suppose in one way it would speak more highly of him if he  _had_  forgotten – if what he did was such an everyday, mundane event for him that it blended in with all the other times he's endangered himself in some way to help somebody else. But in all the ways I care about it speaks volumes about him that he remembers it. For over a minute he looks at me, his mouth slowly closing, and he seems to be waiting for me to continue to talk about that day in the rain. I can't, however. Nor do I feel I need to. The two of us know what happened that day and that is all that matters.

Suddenly he blushes, looks away, and finishes tearing out the page.

"Katniss that was different."

"No it wasn't," I insist, keeping my eyes on him, refusing to look away.

"If you knew-"

"There is nothing to know," I interrupt, firmly but kindly. "Nothing more than what I found out then and there. So what if you're not always in a splendid mood or you feel selfish on occasion or you make mistakes, or anything else that isn't perfect. I know who you truly are when it matters and that is  _all_  that truly matters."

He tears out two more pages, clears his throat and, still with a blush on his cheeks, nods to the papers in front of me on the table.

"Are you, eh… are you done with yours? Everything ready?"

"Yeah."

He nods.

"Okay good," he says, his voice barely audible.

He staples another stack of papers together and begins to sift through them, refusing to look at me and still with a light shade of pink on his cheeks. I don't get it. But if he needs a moment, for whatever the reason, I will allow him that. I give my own work one last look-over before we begin getting everything together to hand it in. It's mostly just something for my eyes and hands to do while I wait for him, my mind busy with other things. I've spent months now working together with the boy with the bread, my dandelion in the spring, and while I've definitely gotten to know him there is still so much that I don't know. On occasion he's shown me hints of a deeper world locked within him, an ability to see things that I, and maybe nobody else, can, not just on an emotional level but in the very way he views the world around us. He is an enigma, and a fascinating one at that. There is no way he will ever be able to convince me that he's not the great person he appears to be, regardless of what unpleasant thoughts he might sometimes have in that head of his. He's not a saint, and everybody has bad qualities and nasty thoughts. I can't imagine him capable of any thoughts or actions that are  _too_  bad, certainly he could never be like the bloodthirsty careers in the Games or the cruel people in the Capitol who send us to the reapings every year, but any negative things about him are counterbalanced by all the good that's in him. A goodness that comes naturally. He took that beating to give me bread because that was what his instincts told him to do.

And as for who we see when we look in the mirror, and what others see when they look at us… I wish I could see what he sees in me – and in many others around me. Gale, who knows me best, sees more or less the same thing that I see myself, but what Peeta sees is far more alluring in many ways. I'm surprised when he attributes qualities to me that I never thought I had, and I wonder where on earth he deduced that I might have them. I would very much like to view the world through his eyes for just one day and watch it come to life in a whole new way. He is such a contrast to who I am. I have never been a particularly exuberant person, and the death of my father certainly didn't help me in that regard. I'm withdrawn, unfriendly, prone to quick judgement and I tend to view things as either right or wrong, with little leeway in-between. Peeta is outgoing, charismatic, sociable, always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt and wanting to think the best of everyone. I feel as if I am a person of black and white, and Peeta Mellark is colour. And five minutes from now, when we hand Mr. Stoker our final part of the project, I worry my life will be a drearier place when that colour leaves.

"We need to head back soon," I tell him softly, wishing we didn't have to go yet.

"I know," he nods. "I'm ready. You?"

I push my part of the work towards him.

"As I'll ever be."

Peeta takes the bundle of papers and stacks them against the table to make them align perfectly. He puts them into the envelope and seals it, exhaling in a "whoosh" sound that reflects the same sense of anxiousness that I am feeling. This is it. The end of our project. Nothing more to be written, nothing more to be added, nothing new that will befall our fictional selves. We have written up our last budget, completed our last essay, raised our last make-believe child. I remember looking forward to this moment when the project was first announced, unable then to even imagine feeling anything but tremendous relief once it was all finished.

I could sit here and tell myself that it's the routine of it all that I will miss. It has, after all, been several months in which this project has been a reliable staple in my week. In the end it did also turn out to be a fairly interesting experience, watching a made-up version of your own life as it unfolded and dealing with challenges as they were presented to you. I have enjoyed the work far more than I ever anticipated and I will miss it to some degree.

But the fundamental reason why this feels so melancholy is because of Peeta. He has been my constant companion through this enterprise and we've formed a partnership that has been rewarding and constructive. More than that I've made a good friend. Someone who might have even been a  _really_  good friend, on par with what Gale was to me before he was more than just a friend. But without the routine of the project binding us together I'm almost certain that our journey together is coming to an end now. Sure, we'll say hi to one another as we pass each other by in the hallways and I suspect we might be teaming up for other exercises during the brief time we have left at school, and possibly even meet up for lunch every once in a while. And of course we'll sometimes see each other at the bakery when Gale and I come to trade, but I know those moments won't allow for anything more than friendly smiles and polite small talk about the weather. Not with my boyfriend standing right next to me, jealous of my fondness for the baker's youngest boy.

"This is it," says Peeta. "Time to end the project."

"Well, then," I say, pushing back my chair and reaching for my things. "No use dragging it out. Come on, I don't want to end up waiting in line behind half our class."

"I forgot how unsentimental you can be," Peeta half-chuckles.

"I'm pragmatic," I argue.

"I didn't say you were wrong."

We gather up our things and walk in silence back towards our classroom. Several of our classmates are already there when we arrive, but many are absent, probably working frantically to finish everything in time. At this point I feel there's not much left to say between Peeta and myself, not pertaining to the project anyway. When we fall in line behind the two other pairs waiting to hand their work to Mr. Stoker Peeta turns to me and holds out the envelope in offering, but I shake my head. I don't care which one of us hands it in, and since he's already holding it he might as well do the honours. Within a minute it's our turn and Peeta's face lights up with one of his trademark smiles as he holds out the thick envelope to our teacher.

"Mr. Mellark, Miss. Everdeen…" says Mr. Stoker, crossing our names off a list. "I'll be looking forward to seeing what you've come up with for your final assignment." He takes the envelope from Peeta and places it on top of a pile on his desk. "There won't be any big announcements at the end of class. You're free to head on home, unless you  _want_  to stick around and chat with your classmates or something."

"Thank you," says Peeta, turning to me. "Come on, Katniss."

He walks out of the classroom and I follow, unable to spot Madge anywhere in the room. I figure I'll make the most out of this unexpected bit of free time and hurry home, so I can go from there out to the woods. Once outside in the corridor Peeta and I both take a step to the side, allowing others to pass through the door, and then we stop, standing opposite each other, tentatively smiling.

"I should get going," I say after a second. "I could get some extra time in the woods."

"Sure," he nods. "I'll stick around. Not much point going anywhere when practice starts as usual after the school day is over." He raises an eyebrow at me. "And don't try and object! You're officially no longer my project wife, we have stuck it out till completed project now do us part, I'm free to wreck my lungs and anything else to my heart's content without it interfering with your studies."

I roll my eyes and give him a playful shove. He chuckles softly, running a hand through his beard. I've gotten used to seeing it now, and it will be strange in a few weeks when the tournament has been held and he will be shaving it off. At least I assume that's what he intends to do. I kind of like him with the beard, but my opinions don't matter.

"I still think you're crazy for putting wrestling above your health," I tell him. "But you're right. I've got no grounds to complain anymore. Besides, you're able to go several hours now without coughing until your ribs almost crack, so that's progress, I guess."

"Yeah," he says with a light laugh, his hands landing on his hips. He looks over his shoulder in the direction of the assembly room, then back at me. "Well, anyway… I should let you get going. No point wasting this bit of free time if you can spend it out in the woods, right?"

"No…"

"It's been good working with you, Katniss," he says, smiling genuinely at me. His blue eyes keep me captive, and I think to myself how much they remind me of Prim's. Same kindness radiating from them, even if there's a stability in his that my little sister doesn't yet possess, and the colour is somewhat different. "I'm glad you took the chance of partnering with me. And not just because it saved me from several months of working with you-know-who."

"Yeah," I chuckle, having almost forgotten the reason why he asked me to pick him in the first place. "I've had a good time. It's been… interesting and productive."

He laughs a little at that.

"You sure know how to give a person a compliment, Everdeen." But his smile is nothing but friendly. "Sorry. Just teasing. I had a great time, too. It's been nice getting to know you, even if it was only for a few months." I half expect him to kiss me on the cheek, or something like that. But all he does is reach out his hand and give my upper arm a squeeze, then he turns to walk down the corridor, sidestepping two of our classmates coming hurrying with their envelope in a tight grasp.

"Peeta!" I call his name just as he begins to walk away, and he turns around and looks at me, a spark of interest in his fine blue eyes. I hesitate for half a second, licking my lips nervously, but I know I'm going to say what's on my mind. Otherwise I wouldn't have called out to him as he began to walk away from me. "I didn't mean what I said. About… about us not speaking to each other anymore once the project is over." He walks slowly back to me. "Or, I… I did sort of mean it, but not… not the way it probably sounded. I didn't mean that I wouldn't  _want_  to, or don't… want to… I was thinking out loud, I guess, at how different our circles are and that we might end up not speaking much anymore." I swallow, meeting his eyes. "But I would like to… Keep speaking, that is."

He smiles softly, his left hand reaching up and finding the side of my face, his fingers in my hair and my ear cradled between his fingers and his thumb. It's an intimate gesture, made even more so by the three slow strokes he gives me with his thumb, and by the way we're looking into each other's eyes during. Too intimate, perhaps. Heck, I don't even know if I'd let Gale touch me this way out in public. And here we are, standing in the middle of the hallway, other students all around us. Somehow deep within me I know that it's the look in my eyes that's telling him it's alright, that he wouldn't make such an intimate move without feeling assured that I would allow it. I feel my heart pounding as we eye each other, and then it comes over me. The overwhelming desire for him to kiss me. To the point that I don't even care that we're out in public, that anybody might see and gossip and it might get back to Vick or Rory and through them to Gale; the desire is so strong that I know I've never wanted anybody to kiss me this badly in all my life. I'm even chanting inside my head – 'kiss me, kiss me, kiss me'.

Of course, he doesn't kiss me. He removes his hand, as usual leaving both a feeling of cold and one of my skin tingling.

"Thank you," he says instead, but I'm so caught up in my body's reaction to his closeness that I'm momentarily confused as to what he's thanking me for. "I should like for us to keep talking to one another. Check in on one another. Have lunch, perhaps?"

"Uhm, yeah, sure," I mumble, my eyes turning to my shoes, needing a break from his while at the same time never wanting to stop looking into them.

"I'll see you around, Katniss." A sudden grin flashes across his face. "And hey – thanks for today."

"Thank you for the past five months," I say, lifting my eyes back to his, my voice sounding frail and low.

He gives me a wink, and then he's off again. This time I allow him to leave, and don't stick around to watch him go. I turn in the opposite direction and head for my locker, grabbing my things while barely aware of my surroundings. I walk past Madge on my way to the school's front door and she says something to me, but I walk right past her, not even slightly aware of what she's saying. I feel more than a little shaken by what just took place and I want to get back home where I can think about what it all was about. Normally I'd go to the woods, but I can't do that this time. I need to think not just about Peeta, but about Gale.

Luckily nobody is home when I walk through the door – nobody but Buttercup, whom I promptly lift up from his cosy spot on the couch and, ignoring his indignant meows and hisses, carry him to the kitchen door. There's a large pile of snow still sitting by Lady's pen, and I throw him into it, closing the door on his protests. I then walk into my bedroom and lie down on the bed, trying to make sense of everything.

On surface level it seems easy – I just felt a stronger attraction towards, and desire to be kissed by, the boy with the bread than I've ever felt with Gale – my actual boyfriend. Clearly that should be telling me that if I ought to be dating anyone it should be… it should be Peeta. If he's single, which I'm still not clear on whether or not he is, I believe he would be agreeable to go on a date with me. I'm not at all good at picking up on whether or not a boy likes me  _like that_ , but he did sort of ask me to go with him to the Harvest Festival as his date. Clearly he's not entirely against the concept of us two going out.

But things aren't necessarily as cut and dry as they might seem on surface level. And I must be one hundred percent sure before I make any move at all, or else I risk losing not only my best friend of many years, but the new friend I have found in Peeta. Because what if… what if what I experienced today wasn't really about Peeta? What if he was just an excuse? I know I need to make my decision about Gale soon, the sooner the better, and I'm struggling with it. Am I in, or am I out? I want to be in, I want to keep being close with him, I want to stay a part of the best team I've ever been a part of. At the same time I'm frightened of what that entails. I'm almost certain now that Gale won't be willing to put sex out of the equation even if he might be willing to agree not to have children – now that I know that you can have one without risking the other. But am I willing to go that far even with contraceptives to protect us? Those can never be one hundred percent sure to keep pregnancy from happening, but even if they were… Sometimes I'm absolutely convinced I never want to have sex, ever, no matter what. It seems uncomfortable and painful and messy and smelly, and the thought of Gale and I touching each other intimately and being naked together and all of that, it frightens me. Possibly because it's unknown to me and because I've always associated it directly with the risk of pregnancy, and I can't shake that connection from my mind. Then there are other times, when I think I might be willing to take that step so long as the circumstances are right. If I do choose to stay in the relationship with Gale then I must be sure that I would be willing to sleep with him at some point, or else it will all fall apart anyway.

What if the powerful desire to be kissed by Peeta today was just a way for my brain and my body to try and escape? Peeta represents something easier and far less confining, possibly even just a kiss and nothing more. I have no idea what he might want from me but that leaves the door open that he might want  _nothing_  from me – not marriage, not children, not sex. Just a few dates, or even just my friendship. In that sense, kissing him might be safe, without the risk of losing a years-old friendship and without the troublesome matter of how to live my life.

I do believe wholeheartedly that the attraction itself was real. He's an attractive person, with his captivating blue eyes, his ashen hair that seems to create a halo around his head in the right light, and his charming smile. What girl wouldn't be open to the idea of being kissed by him? And we get along so well, him and I. A natural fit, an effortless companionship. He makes no demands of me, ever only seems pleased to be in my company, supporting me and challenging me in the best ways. I wanted  _Peeta_  to kiss me today, not just any guy in general. But that doesn't mean I wanted it for the right reasons. The reasons he would deserve. The reasons that would be the right ones to walk away from Gale.

* * *

That night I wake screaming from a nightmare, my whole body covered in sweat and the sheets tangled around my legs in a way that almost makes me panic the first few seconds before I can get my bearings. I'm alone in bed, Prim has gone to our mother sometime during the night, and I look around wildly, patting the empty side of the bed as if to double-check that I am indeed by myself. It's nothing new, waking from a nightmare. The feeling of my pounding heart and lungs straining to do their job, of hair sticking to my forehead, of a metallic taste of fear in my mouth. But tonight was different. I didn't dream of Father, or exploding mines, or of Prim starving to death.

Tonight I saw him – the boy with the bread. I saw him as from a distance, observing him, seeing him in danger without being able to help him or even call out a warning. It took half the dream for me to realize I was seeing him on television, hunted not by animals or even peacekeepers, but by career tributes. I saw him participate in the Hunger Games, surrounded by dangers ranging from other tributes to game-maker traps to starvation. Oddly the last part got to me the most. He, the boy with the big heart who once saved me and my family from starvation, his face sunken in and his eyes hollow and me sitting at home with an abundance of food in front of me but no way of getting it to him. And then I saw another tribute come up behind him and stick a sword into him and wrangle his life away, and that is when I woke.

"Oh God…" I mumble, wiping my brow with my forearm, forcing myself to try and calm down and slow my breathing.

I know there's no reason to be frightened. Peeta is not in any danger, not at the moment at least. The Hunger Games are more than two months away and he is far safer from Effie's hand than I am, having only the minimum amount of slips in the reaping bowls. As I lie back down in bed and pull the covers tighter around me, my body shivering slightly as the sweat cools against my skin, I tell myself not to be an idiot. There is no reason why Peeta would end up in the Games. If Gale could make it through, having countless more slips than Peeta, then the baker's youngest boy ought to be as safe as anyone can be. I don't even believe I had this dream because I'm worried he might end up called to the stage by Effie. I may not be a philosophical person but it's easy enough to interpret the meaning behind a dream like this, the very night our project came to its end.

I'm dreading the reality of having to part ways with the boy with the bread, and perhaps never get any closer to being a part of each other's lives than we've been this winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as you can see, I chose to end the year by also ending the school project. New directions abound in the new year.
> 
> I know Katniss doesn't paint the most flattering picture of herself in this chapter, and it's not much like the Katniss we know from canon. But, it's meant to be her own insecurities and her own self-view, and like most people she doesn't see herself the way she genuinely is. I also borrowed shamelessly from Fredrik Backman's "A Man Called Ove" with her description of herself as black-and-white and Peeta as colour. It always seemed to me like something Katniss would use to describe herself and Peeta, even if she, like Ove, might be wrong about it.
> 
> Thanks to all of you for your support in 2017! I hope to see you all again next year. =)


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, new year, new beginnings... I know I've said that now that the school project is over the pace of the story would be quicker, since it wouldn't be covering more or less every week of the timeline. During the past year I wrote a number of scenes that would take place in-between the project ending and K&P's graduation, but hardly any of them will actually be included. It's a case of kill your darlings, I guess. They don't contribute enough to the story, at least not when the pace has been as slow as it's been, and therefore need to end up on the literary cutting room floor. I might post some of them at some point as "deleted scenes" or something, but we'll see. Unfortunately, Peeta's wrestling tournament is more likely than not to be one of the parts not included. It doesn't contribute much in the grand scheme of things and isn't necessary.
> 
> This chapter is in many ways another one of those that ought to have been deleted, but I admit I have quite the fondness for it, so I decided to keep it in. I fleshed it out and imported some elements that would otherwise have been in a different kind of chapter, so it should conduce well enough.

The following two weeks are strange, even though strictly speaking it's only Monday afternoons that deviate from the previous routine. I wait impatiently to find out if we will be getting to read our partner's evaluation, and to find out our grade, but it's as if the project never happened. Our teachers don't mention it with a single word. The hour that used to be filled with project work has now been devoted to mandatory study time, in itself not unwelcome since the number of essays and exams we have lined up is staggering. Each Monday afternoon Peeta's eyes meet mine and he smiles at me, and I entertain the thought of asking him to study with me, for old times' sake. What stops me is Madge staying beside me as I get ready to head to the assembly room, and one or other of Peeta's friends dragging him along to sit with them. Maybe it's for the best, anyway. After the strange way I felt on the day our project ended, wanting him to kiss me like that, I feel a bit bashful around him and I'm a touch concerned with what might happen if I feel that way again. If I do, I will have to consider the possibility that it really does mean something deeper, and that is an overwhelming thought.

On the first Monday we do what we said we would, and speak to one another like friends. Like he said he would Peeta comes up to me at what used to be the recess before project hour, inquiring about how I've been, how my family is doing, how my studies are coming along. The only thing he doesn't seem to ask about is Gale. I see his friends rolling their eyes, especially Rusty seems as perturbed by our socializing as he did before. But nobody voices any objections out loud, and our conversation is short-lived anyway, by necessity. Once the brief recess is up we are due back in our homeroom to spend the following hour sitting in silence, each student working on whatever they need to devote their time to the most. Peeta and I are soon back in different ends of the classroom, saying nothing further to each other for the duration of the day.

* * *

The weather has improved steadily over the past couple of weeks, not counting three days of heavy rain we had earlier this week, and when Gale and I meet up in our glade on Sunday morning we can't even see our breaths during the coldest hours. We still keep scarves and gloves and hats on, and let the hot tea in our mugs warm us where we sit on our overturned log, but once the sun has been up for an hour or so we will probably start feeling sweaty. Once we start moving through the woods to check the snares and search for prey neither one of us is going to be feeling cold. The snows have melted almost entirely by now, and if this keeps up the only places in the forest where you will find any is where the shrubberies and evergreens and undergrowth keep the warmth of the sun from reaching the ground. Not a lot of migrating birds have returned yet, but they will soon enough, and it won't be long now before a new generation of woodland animals will come into the world. It's a good time to be a hunter and a gatherer. If it weren't for the upcoming Hunger Games, it would be a good time to be alive in general.

I'm feeling quite content today, almost happy. Springtime can be a difficult time for me, but I do love that the world around me comes back to life after long months of winter hibernation. Food becomes more plentiful, we don't have to freeze and can let fresh air into the house for hours every day, and the dreary whites and greys and browns of late autumn and winter give way to bright blue skies, flowers of various colours, and luscious greens on the ground and on the leaves of the flora. This year I'm not enjoying spring as much as I tend to, the worries for the future and the demanding work load at school keeping me occupied in more ways than one. And I don't even want to  _think_  about the reaping. My very last one. I've heard it said that your last reaping is the only one more nerve-wracking than your first. It isn't hard to understand why.

We have a fairly successful hunt, felling not only squirrels but finding two rabbits in Gale's snares. And best of all – I shoot a racoon. I'll willingly trade the other animals but this one I want for myself. I haven't managed to bring a racoon home in over two years and I'm already thinking of things I can do with its pelt. Holding it in my hand I stroke the soft fur with a feeling of triumph, and Gale gives me such a great smile that I offer him the meat, all of it.

"Not on your life, honey," he smiles. "That one is all yours."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. You felled it, you keep it. We'll take a rabbit each, and we can divide whatever the baker will trade us for the squirrels." Then he scowls. "Oh, wait, I forgot. We can't go to the bakery today. I guess then I can take two squirrels and you one – or we can trade them at the Hob and split  _that_  between us."

"Don't be ridiculous," I say dismissively, carefully rearranging the contents of my game bag to put the racoon at the bottom. "We'll trade with Mr. Mellark and get bakery bread."

"Second week of April. They're closed."

I pull my arm, then my head, through the strap of my game bag, letting the bag rest in-between my arm and my side. I place a fingertip on Gale's chin, stand up on my tiptoes and give him a peck on the lips.

"I want bakery bread. Please? For me?"

He doesn't look happy, but I don't make that kind of request often, so he relents. He puts his own game bag back on and starts walking towards the spot where we hide our weapons. It's early, we could easily stay out here another two or three hours, but we've got a decent haul – more than a decent one, in fact – and I definitely don't have any objections to heading back already. I'm eager to get back home and show Mother and Prim what I've got at the bottom of my game bag.

My spirits are high as we crawl underneath the fence and cross the Meadow, and in my mind I'm already imagining the bread we'll be having with supper tonight. I had originally intended not to sell the rabbit, but now that I've got the racoon instead I'm starting to consider the things I could get to go with it. Some potatoes perhaps? We haven't had any for at least three weeks. Prim is fond of bell peppers, and I like the green ones especially, so maybe we can get that?

"You're thinking of food," comments Gale as we make a right turn onto one of the larger roads that lead towards the part of town where the bakery is located. "You get an almost dream-like look in your eyes when you do."

"I'm thinking of bread to go with the racoon meat tonight," I confirm. "We've still got butter left, and Prim made cheese the other day. Are you  _sure_  you don't want both rabbits, though? Your family is bigger than mine and-"

"Oh come on, Katniss, you know I'm not going to take both. Besides, we've still got meat left over from last week's turkey."

"As long as you're sure."

I can tell from the look on Gale's face that he's sceptical to say the least, but not pertaining to the rabbits. His thick eyebrows furrow over his grey eyes and he's biting the inside of his bottom lip, the way he only does when he doesn't think something is going to work. I don't ask him what is on his mind. He'll tell me soon enough anyway. And as predicted, once we turn onto the street that leads to the bakery he voices his concerns.

"I think we're wasting our time."

"Oh, we're not," I say in a carefree tone. I have to give him a nudge to move aside so I can sidestep the near-decimetre deep stream of water that runs along the curb. Unsurprisingly the drains have done little to take care of the recent downpours and the water from the melting snows.

"The bakery is closed," Gale points out in a slightly annoyed tone.

"And what? You think the Mellarks went on a family vacation? Touring the catacombs of the arena from the 74th Games, perhaps? Come on, Gale, what does it matter if they're closed?"

"Not  _if_. They  _are_ , for sure."

"What does it matter?" I repeat lightly, shrugging a shoulder. "So long as they're there we can still trade."

"We never have before," he reminds me. It's true. The bakery being closed has always meant we don't stop by to trade but that doesn't mean we can't.

"They're doing their spring cleaning," I say. "So they'll be in the kitchen. Thus we can trade."

"Okay, two things," sighs Gale. "First of all, if they're cleaning then they're not baking, and we won't have anything to trade. Second, how do you know they're cleaning?"

"Peeta told me."

"Right," he mutters under his breath. "Silly me."

I smirk and give him a nudge with my elbow.

"A lot of the things they bake keep for a day or two. If you preserve it right it won't go stale in just one day. Besides, slightly stale bread sounds better than no bread at all."

Gale looks like he contemplates this for a minute. I think I know him well enough to tell that the mention of Peeta made him want to go to the bakery even less but ultimately putting good food on the table tonight wins out. Besides, the bakery always means the possibility of running into the people who live there, so it's not like he didn't take that into consideration to begin with.

I take his arm under my own to try and brighten his spirits a little. I strike up a conversation about the spring rain and how fresh everything smells afterward and Gale, somewhat reluctantly it seems, joins in the talk. We turn the corner into the alleyway behind the bakery, seeing that the back door is wide open to let the fresh air in, and an unusual sound stops us both in our tracks. We can hear various sounds that suggests cleaning is in full motion, like scrubbing brushes working against wooden floors and wet rags being wrung over buckets of water, but the accompanying singing takes us aback to say the least. It seems to be at least three voices, all male, so presumably Peeta and his two brothers, cheerfully belting out a song I have never heard before. They're not entirely in-synch with one another and one of them is off-key, though thankfully the other two fare well enough. The song itself seems utterly ridiculous from what I can hear, though the sound is somewhat muffled and doesn't carry clearly all the way to where we are standing. But when they heartily sing a long note about what sounds to be a jar of mayonnaise I can't keep my composure. Giggling I turn to Gale, giving him a look of amused disbelief, and while he seems mostly perplexed and like he finds it utterly stupid I do see the corner of his mouth turning up a bit.

"Do we dare interrupt?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"At least they seem in jolly spirits," I offer, stifling my giggles. It won't look good if I'm seeming to be laughing at them when I walk up to the door. "Okay, do you have the squirrels?"

Lifting the three dead animals up by their tails, Gale nods at me. He puts them back into his bag for now and stops about a yard from the open door.

"You know what, Katniss?" he says, suddenly scowling again. "Maybe… Maybe we shouldn't. Or at least come back later. This feels inappropriate somehow."

Pretending like I didn't hear him I walk up to the door and knock on it before stepping around it to the opening. The singing comes to an abrupt stop and when I look through the open doorway I'm met by three blond heads and three pairs of blue eyes looking over at me with the same surprised expression on their faces. For a brief second I almost can't tell them apart, not with all three of them sporting beards to boot. Then Peeta grins, Scotti shrugs and goes back to his task and Ryean scowls. Peeta is halfway inside one of the giant ovens, scrubbing it clean, Scotti works on cleaning the kitchen island and Ryean is on his knees on the floor, scrubbing carefully. Peeta moves back from the oven and stands up, greeting me but momentarily I'm too stunned to reply. A very uncomfortable feeling has come over me upon seeing him with ash and soot in his hair and on his face. It reminds me of the coalminers and how they look coming home at the end of the day. I don't like that look on anyone, but it looks plain wrong on Peeta. Like a violation of something that's too pure and light and gentle to be stifled by the darkness and dampness of the mines.

Swallowing hard I take a step back so that the door no longer hides Gale from my view and I turn to him and wave him over. He doesn't look pleased, but he complies. Peeta is wiping his hands on a towel and runs his arm over his brow, accidentally smudging the soot in the process. Oddly his eyes seem bluer when contrasted with the blackness of the soot but for once I don't find that it makes his eyes look more beautiful. I wish he would clean his face. I'm a little uncomfortable looking at him and I can't remember the last time that happened.

"Katniss, what a nice surprise!" he says, grinning as he sticks the towel in the back pocket of his worn and dirty jeans. "What brings you by?"

"We're closed," says Ryean dryly, glaring up at me from his spot on the floor. "As in, haven't got anything freshly baked for you." When Gale comes into his view he makes a face and looks over at his brother. The two share a look for a couple of seconds and then Ryean goes back to scrubbing.

"I was hoping we could still make a trade," I say. "Gale?"

Looking like a thundercloud Gale reaches inside his bag and produces the three squirrels but he doesn't hold them out for Peeta to inspect.

"I don't barter with the sons," he says to me. "Only with the baker."

"He's not here, so go ahead and scram, then," says Ryean.

"Rye," says Peeta, his voice reproaching as he momentarily looks over his shoulder at his older brother.

" _I_  don't mind bartering with the present company," I say, trying to sound upbeat but feeling a bit awkward.

"Either one of us three can speak for the bakery, I assure you that," says Peeta to Gale, somehow managing a smile and a tone far friendlier than Gale has earned.

"We still have yesterday's unsold bread to trade with you," says Scotti. I'm a bit surprised, as I've rarely heard him speak. Then again I can't say that I've spent all that much time around him either. He's four years older than me and we never had any reason to interact at school. He's also much shyer and more withdrawn than his younger brothers, at least so far as I can tell.

"If we're trading for yesterday's goods then the usual rates don't apply," says Gale sourly. "At least one bread loaf more than usual."

"Hey, if it doesn't suit you then you are more than welcome to mosey on off to some other bakery," says Ryean in a tone that's equal to Gale's. He straightens his back and sits back on his haunches, the brush falling to the floor with a thud that underlines his words.

"You know what, I'll handle this particular trade," Peeta tells his cantankerous brother. If I didn't know better I'd guess he was feeling a bit embarrassed by Ryean's unfriendly behaviour. While I do find the middle Mellark boy to be far less pleasant than his charming younger brother and his polite older one, in this situation I have a hard time reproaching his conduct. Gale is deliberately provoking him, and it makes no sense to me that he would – and if it makes no sense to me, I can only imagine how little sense it makes to Ryean Mellark. Despite Gale's feelings towards merchants, and his occasional bouts of unfounded jealousy towards Peeta, this is about procuring bread to put on the table. All the other stuff should be left at the door.

"I think Scotti should do it," argues Ryean, turning to his older brother. "Peete will probably trade goods worth a hog in exchange for a squirrel."

"I think you should be quiet and get back to work," says Scotti coolly. He looks over at us and him and Peeta share a look. "You know Father's usual trade rate?" he asks. Peeta nods. "Alright then. But be quick about it." He resumes his work cleaning the kitchen island, stretching to reach the far end. "Those ovens won't clean themselves."

With disbelief I look from one of the large ovens to the next. There are no less than five in total, and even the smallest is at least twice the size of ours at home.

"You have to clean  _all_  of the ovens?" I ask Peeta.

"That's what you get for being the baby," says Ryean, diligently scrubbing away again. I'm almost taken aback by the uncommon sound of mirth in his voice. "He's smallest, so he can reach better inside them."

"Never wanted a younger sister more than I do during spring cleaning," says Peeta, jesting but his voice a touch strained.

"Can we get this over with?" sighs Gale, rolling his eyes.

"How many squirrels do you want to trade?" Peeta asks in return, all polite and business like, hands on his hips.

"You can count to three?" Gale shoots back, holding the squirrels up.

"Stop it," I hiss at him under my breath. I try to look like I'm not in the company of a boyfriend seemingly suffering from a large lump of coal up his ass as I turn back to Peeta. "All three, if you'll agree to it."

"Sounds perfect." Peeta smiles warmly at me as he says it, eyes distractingly blue, teeth white, dimple showing. I smile back on autopilot and for a moment we both seem to forget what we were even talking about, content to just look and smile at one another. It's been a while since we last spoke other than in passing.

Gale, of course, can be counted upon to bring me back to the present moment.

"Do you want to trade with us, or do you want to ogle my girlfriend?" he asks with barely contained anger, crossing his arms over his chest so abruptly that the three squirrels sway in his hand, knocking against each other.

"He wants to ogle your girlfriend," answers Ryean dryly, dipping his brush in a bucket of water sitting beside him.

"Would you shut up, Ryean?" sighs Scotti under his breath.

"You are both being idiots," I say sternly, my eyes going from Gale to Ryean and back again. I glance quickly at Peeta, but his head is turned in his brother's direction.

"Ryean, two loafs of walnut bread and two with raisin."

"I'm not getting up."

"Notice how my voice didn't go up at the end? Not a question." Peeta keeps his eyes on his older brother as Ryean, who is glaring back at him, slowly rises to his feet and walks three paces over to a cupboard. "And throw in that bag of cookies Mother wanted us to toss. To make up for you being an abject pain in the ass to the people who are bringing you the squirrel you're going to eat when you're done scrubbing."

"I'll get the damn bread," answers Ryean icily, opening the cupboard and grabbing four loaves of bread and shoving them into paper bags, never taking his eyes off his brother. "But you can forget the cookies. The hogs are a better use for them."

"We wouldn't take any cookies from you anyway," answers Gale sourly. "We don't take charity. The bread will do."

I can tell from the look on Ryean's face that he has an acid reply in mind, but he manages to summon the strength to keep from saying it. He walks slowly back to where he was scrubbing and holds out the bags of bread, making Peeta walk over to him and take them. I think to myself that the middle child of the family must be the one who takes after their mother the most, even his scornful facial expression reminds me of the baker's wife, but he did get the bread when Peeta asked him to, which surprised me. Maybe it's the presence of their older brother that does it. Scotti is finishing up cleaning the kitchen island and doesn't spare us even a glance, but he seems to be the mediator between his brothers nonetheless.

Peeta walks back to the door and offers the bags of bread to Gale, who hands the squirrels to me and promptly puts the bread in his game bag. Paying no mind to Gale's sour mood Peeta turns to me as I hold out the dead animals. I know he deliberately lets his hand stay on mine for a moment more than necessary when they pass from my hand to his, and while his face is fairly neutral I can see in his eyes that he's smiling at me on the inside.

"Thank you," he says when he pulls his hand back. "These will be a fine reward for us once we're done with all this cleaning." He sighs and makes a face. "You know, probably just in time for  _next year's_  spring cleaning."

"It will take even longer if you keep standing there wasting air instead of cleaning ovens," comments Ryean in a bit of a sing-song voice.

"I remember last month when you had laryngitis," says Peeta with another sigh. "Best week of the year so far."

To my surprise Ryean looks up from his scrubbing and grins at his brother, and Peeta chuckles slightly in return. The mood then changes with the sound of footsteps descending the wooden stairs leading between the bakery and the apartment above. Gale and I both freeze, figuring it must be Mrs. Mellark, and Peeta's tense expression as he turns his head in the direction of the sound seems to confirm our assumption.

"Uhm, you'd better go," he says in a regretful tone. "My mother doesn't particularly like bartering at the door. She prefers more… traditional ways of exchanging goods."

Gale scowls deeply, sticking his hands in his back pockets and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I take a step to the side to avoid being seen, and Gale does the same. He looks like he's about to say something but thankfully Mrs. Mellark's voice cuts him off before he's even begun.

"How is everything going down here?" I can barely hide my surprise. Her tone is pleasant, jovial even. Peeta doesn't react, which actually gives me the impression that it's not uncommon for him to hear it. "Why don't you take a break, boys? I brought you something to drink."

We hear Scotti and Ryean reacting favourably to this news. From the sound of it Ryean unceremoniously drops his brush on the floor, seemingly eager to get something to drink. Even Peeta's eyes light up, making me wonder what it is she's brought them. He turns back to Gale and me and smiles crookedly.

"I'll see you later, Katniss," he whispers. "Have a great day, both of you."

"Where's Peeta?" Mrs. Mellark asks from inside the bakery. "Scotti, go easy on the juice. Save some for your brother."

"You'd better go, or you'll miss out," I say awkwardly.

"Bye." Peeta nods at Gale and flashes me a very quick smile before disappearing from sight.

"Let's get going, already," mutters Gale, beginning to walk away without waiting to see if I'm following.

I cast another look at the open door to the bakery, hearing the unexpected sounds of laughter coming from inside. Then I turn my face forward and decide not to think about the bakery more for the moment. It was lovely seeing Peeta again, if only for a brief moment, but I wish I had sent Gale to the Hob to get started on trading the rabbits so that I could have bartered with Peeta by myself.

"You know, he's not my partner any longer," I point out as we walk back out onto the larger road. "You shouldn't have been rude to him when he was, but now you've got even less reason to."

"I don't like the way he looks at you," says Gale curtly.

"Oh please!" I cry in a scoff. "I've seen you give lewder looks than that to girls, and even before he knew about you and me Peeta never tried to invite me to the slag heap, so stop acting like you think he's incapable of thinking with his head when he's around girls. Even if he was, do you really feel you should be one to talk?"

His jaw drops, and he stares at me, eyes wide with incredulity, and I raise a challenging eyebrow at him in return. Then he actually blushes and looks away, clenching his jaw but saying nothing for about a minute. His hands find their way into his pockets, then his arms wrap across his chest.

"Let's just drop it, shall we? I don't want the entire day ruined by some other guy."

"Fine. But may I remind you that  _you're_  the one letting him ruin our day."

"Yeah," he scoffs. "I could tell you were enjoying his company."

"People usually do when they see their friends." I sigh. "Usually."

"He's got a thing for you, and you're not exactly discouraging him."

"If I was flirting with him, if I insisted on stopping by the bakery just so I could – what was that word you used –  _ogle_ him, do you honestly believe I would have brought my boyfriend along?"

He says nothing but doesn't seem entirely convinced, which offends me. I mean, yeah, it's true, I did want to trade at the bakery partially because I wanted to say hi to Peeta. But not for any inappropriate reasons. Besides, while I knew they were doing their spring cleaning today I had no way of knowing that Peeta would be there. He could have been in the store, or up in their living quarters. His wretched mother could have answered the door. Gale keeps getting himself worked up for no reason and he keeps acting in ways that are  _very_  unbecoming.

"I wasn't even in the mood for bread," I hear him mutter under his breath after a minute.

"Gale," I groan. "Why can't we just… have a good time together? Forget about everyone else. A few weeks back you accused me of thinking of other things when we're alone together, but if you ask me, you are the one who keeps bringing other people and other things into the equation."

He gives me another look, one that suggests something that I said got through to him. I wait for him to say something, meanwhile wondering to myself yet again if the time has come to make my final decision – am I in, or out? Right now though I feel as if I never get the chance to properly evaluate what it's like to be a couple with him. There's always something else interfering – the large amount of schoolwork that I have, the pressure of finding a job this summer… my friendship, or whatever it should be called, with Peeta… Ought I to distance myself from Peeta for a while, now that the project is over? Give Gale a chance when it's just him and me, no other boys involved in any capacity? Peeta is a temptation of sorts, an attractive boy whose company I feel good in, someone I could easily run towards if I felt I needed an out from being with Gale. Not that I ever would – I couldn't do that to Gale and I couldn't treat Peeta that way either. He is more than means to an end, and I can't ever allow myself to grow closer to him physically unless it's for his own sake, and not as an escape route. All in all though, Peeta does present some complications, and perhaps it might be best to not seek out his company for a while, at least until I've figured out where things stand with Gale.

Only the problem is, school ends in just a few more weeks. After that, who knows when I will spend time with Peeta Mellark again? If I want there to be a friendship between us that survives after graduation I can't distance myself from him now.

We turn a corner and I glance at Gale, wondering if he will say anything further on the subject we just discussed. I notice that his focus has shifted elsewhere, though.

"Damn," he mutters as we both look upward and see the dark, greyish purple clouds looming over the Seam. It may only be April but by the looks of those clouds we might be looking at the first thunderstorm of the year. Neither one of us has a fear of lightning but neither one of us would enjoy getting caught in the downpour that usually follows thunder. It's rained enough already in my opinion, but it seems the skies would disagree.

"You think we can make it if we make a run for it?" I ask.

"No," he says flatly.

I squint to see better at a distance and I notice what he's already realized. It's already pouring down rain over the Seam. We're going to get soaked, unless we stay at the Hob and wait it out. I look over at him and he meets my eyes. Then he smiles faintly, his first real smile of the day, and I know we're thinking the same thing. It's been a while since we last spent an hour or more at the Hob, socializing with the traders there and enjoying Greasy Sae's stew.

"Race you to the Hob," I say and then I take off running before he can reply. Behind me I hear him cry out that I'm cheating, though his tone is amused, not upset. Gale is faster than I am, but I am more secure on my feet and the rain that's already fallen, and the mushy half-melted snow, makes the ground beneath us slippery, and filled with puddles and specks of mud which you do best to avoid. As we race over the town square with its cobbled stones he nearly slips and loses his balance just as he's about to pass me.

"Shit!" I hear him exclaim seconds later, as he comes close to falling a second time.

"Come on now, Hawthorne!" I call out to him without looking over my shoulder to meet his eyes. "We're halfway there and I'm way ahead of you!"

I smile, almost feeling like laughing. How long has it been since we did something like this, something childlike and fun with no care to how we might look to everyone else who is still out and about in these moments before the rain will start to fall? Gale seems to have grown up so much in the past few years, become a serious adult who frowns upon acting like a fool in public, and truth be told I've never been one to enjoy that kind of thing. Right now though it just feels like fun, like a moment of reprieve in which we can both get a brief outlet for all the pent-up anxiety over the looming reaping and everything else that is to come. I'm reminded of another race, taking place indoors earlier this year, but I cast the memory aside and focus on staying ahead of my competitor. As we turn a corner and dart towards the Hob, now only a hundred yards or so away, Gale catches up to me and passes me, sending me a grin in the process. I shake my head, determined not to let him win so easily, and make an effort to run faster. It's been a while since I last ran any longer distance and my mouth is starting to get a metallic taste and my side is starting to cramp, but I suck it up and push a bit further. Gale still beats me, with just a couple of paces to spare, but I don't mind it when I hear his laughter mixed with his panting breaths as he presses his left palm against the wall and leans over a bit. I don't join him in his laughter, but I smile slightly at him as I sink down against the wall and fight to catch my own breath. It's not that we're out of shape, it's just that our exercise rarely constitutes of racing one another like this. As hunters we've become sprinters more than long-distance runners.

"Looks like I beat you after all, Catnip," pants Gale, grinning widely. He stands up straight and holds his hand out to me. "Come on, we should head inside before the rain hits."

I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet, refusing to let on that I could use another couple of minutes of rest before getting back up. I press my lips to his for a few seconds and the look of surprise in his eyes when we part makes me grin too. I don't think I've ever kissed him in public before.

"What?" I say, trying my best to sound coquettish and probably failing miserably since I'm still trying to catch my breath. "The winner deserves a prize, no?"

Without waiting for a response from him I head inside the Hob, Gale following right behind me, and we each find ourselves a chair to sit on right by the door. I take our bags and place them in my lap, feeling better when I feel the weight of them, knowing that they contain not only meat from the woods but goodies from the bakery. We have not been seated for long before the rain begins to fall, and I am instantly glad that we decided to go here instead of trying to outrun the clouds.

"For crying out loud!" yells Darius, coming running into the Hob with a newspaper feebly held up over his helmet-less head, as if that would shield him successfully from the heavy rain. "Why does it always have to be bad weather when  _I'm_  on duty?"

"When are you ever  _not_  on duty?" teases Gale good-naturedly. He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, looking comfortably and dry compared to Darius. The peacekeeper gives him a look and flicks the soaked newspaper at him.

"The better question is, what do you even  _do_  when you're on duty?" I say, a line I would probably never dare give any other peacekeeper but Darius.

"The pair of you are well on your way to be ordered out to clean the street," replies Darius, leaning forward and shaking his wet red hair like a dog, droplets of water flying everywhere. "How's that for something I do when I'm on duty?"

He hollers out for Greasy Sae to bring him some stew to warm him up, even though it's not cold out, just raining. While he waits for the food he takes a seat next to Gale and the two of them begin to talk, mostly about what we've caught in the woods today and if we're trading anything. I barely listen. My attention is on the scene outside, the rain pouring down in a manner that is almost transfixing. It's not just a lot of rain, it's real heavy rain, the kind that tends to accompany thunder. The raindrops look big and fat and come pouring down from the sky in a way that makes it splash from the pavement and the puddles, the latter almost looking like they're boiling. Then comes the first bright flash and I close my eyes and count in my head. When the rumble comes I determine it to be about three kilometres away, probably in the direction of home. It's rare to have thunder at this time of year, when the temperature is still fairly low, but it happens every now and then. I feel a sudden longing to be home and wish I hadn't decided to be comfortable and aim for riding this out at the Hob. Prim gets nervous during thunder, though she thoroughly denies it, and the closer the lightning is the more uncomfortable she naturally gets. I wish I was at home with her.

Another bright flash comes, and I open my eyes this time, again counting and this time determining the lightning to be further away. Gale and Darius are still talking, leaning in closer to one another now, and at this point the sound of their voices has gotten too overpowered by the roaring of the downpour for me to be able to tell what they are saying. I breathe in deeply, as always enjoying the fresh smell of the rain, and my eyes catch a flock of blackbirds flying fast through the nasty weather. It almost seems odd that they are able to fly with such ease when the rain rattles down this heavily. I don't envy them. For the most part I feel bad for animals caught in nasty weather, though the thought of Buttercup being outside somewhere, getting his fur showered, brings a petty smile to my face. He could use a downpour to clean his coat, anyway.

"Should I get you some stew?"

Gale's voice brings me back to the present and I look up at him, nodding slightly.

"Sure. Yeah, thanks."

"See, if you had taken up with a merchant guy you would never have been treated to such culinary treasures," he smirks, wiggling an eyebrow, clearly trying to be funny. I smile half-heartedly and let the bags slide down on the floor.

"You had your eye on a merchant guy?" questions Darius, using a piece of bread he must have brought with him to soak up more of the stew Sae just brought him, putting it in his mouth with a loud smacking sound.

"No."

"Good. You should leave those folks alone." He grins at me. "They're too fragile. You'd break a guy like that in half within a week."

"Lucky I never considered dating a peacekeeper, then," I retort. "You and your kind wouldn't survive an hour with me."

He laughs heartily, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Hawthorne's got his hands full with you, I'll bet."

"You really have nothing better to do with your time?" I question with a scowl. "What do they pay you lot for?"

"Keeping peace," he grins.

"By disturbing it for decent folk?"

He raises an eyebrow at me while shovelling another large spoonful of food in his mouth, and I can't help but chuckle. His eyes go wide, and he whistles.

"Did I just hear Katniss Everdeen  _giggling_?" he asks while chewing.

"That was not a giggle," I say decisively. Then I shrug a shoulder. "It was a chortle. At best."

"You know, I'm almost disappointed in you," he claims, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs, the now empty bowl in his hands. "But in the end, probably relieved."

"Why is that?"

"That even you can put aside that sourpuss face and start giggling – sorry,  _chortling_  – like a besotted schoolgirl, once you became besotted."

"You really are bored, aren't you Darius?" I question, caught somewhere between amusement and feeling uncomfortable. Does he think I only chuckled a moment ago because I'm in love? What kind of insane logic is that?

"Oh, and speaking of…"

I look up at his words to find Gale approaching, two steaming hot bowls of stew, one in each hand. With a smile he hands me one and sits down beside me, hungrily wolfing down the food the moment he's in the chair.

"Think Sae would like to trade with us?" I ask him, taking a bite out of my own food. The chunk of meat in my mouth is chewy and doesn't taste of much but the bits of potato swimming around on the plate look mouth-watering.

"Nah," says Gale, talking with his mouth full. "Barter with the hard-working peacekeeper here instead. I've decided to keep my rabbit, so he'll happily buy yours."

He resumes his conversation with Darius and I eat my stew in silence, listening to the rain and thunder outside, breathing in the pleasant combination of hot food and fresh rainfall. My mind then goes to Peeta, and I wonder how he's doing with those ovens. By now their break must be well over, and the three of them back to cleaning. I remember how kind and pleasant their mother sounded when she came down the stairs. I've never heard that woman sound so agreeable. It's hard to believe she's the same woman who hit him so badly all those years ago for the crime of burning some bread. I decide I'm glad I heard it. I'm glad Peeta gets treated kindly from time to time by his mother. I shove another spoonful of stew in my mouth, chewing slowly on the meat, picturing Peeta at the end of the day, enjoying the squirrel I brought. Slowly a smile creeps onto my face.

Darius' hand pats me on the shoulder and I look up.

"Well, Everdeen, I'm off. Out to risk life and limb in the hard rains. Your lover here sold me one of the rabbits, get the cash from him." He gives me a friendly smile. "Good to see you're smiling again – this makes twice in fifteen minutes. Besotted, besotted…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the first time I wrote Darius, and it was quite fun, so he might be returning.
> 
> The song Peeta and his brothers sing is something entirely fictional, and I have no idea what the lyrics would be. The part about a jar of mayonnaise sounds ridiculous, I know. I ended up writing it in because I came to think of a Don Rosa story (the best duck cartoonist ever - yes, IMHO better than Carl Barks), in which Donald and the nephews sing a song which includes a line about a jar of mayonnaise. At least I seem to remember that it does, but I could be mistaken. This is in the Swedish translation, so I have no clue what the original line was. Anyway, I just thought it was randomly cute.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a long time to get in order. First it was too short, then I brought in something from a previously discarded chapter and worked it in, and suddenly it was too long and needed re-working. But finally I got it done, and it's really late (or early, depending on how you look at it) and I really ought to just post this thing and go to bed!
> 
> As I've previously said, I've decided to remove several scenes from K&P's remaining school time to help the story progress. Most likely some of those scenes will be posted separately sometime soon in a "deleted scenes" kind of way, and some will be re-worked into later chapters. One such "deleted scene" is unfortunately Peeta's wrestling tournament. I kind of liked it myself, but it didn't add much to the progression of the story, and in the end I found it wasn't necessary. So this chapter takes place around three weeks after the previous one, after the tournament has been held.
> 
> Among the elements I've removed for now is a subplot concerning Prim, and Katniss having to come to grips with her little sister growing up. I'll probably just shift most of it for later in the story, but there was one part that couldn't be moved, so it takes place here. More on that in the end notes.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy!

On the first Wednesday of May I arrive at school, for once feeling more than ready for it all to be done with and for an existence devoid of exams on top of exams, essays op of essays, home assignments on top of home assignments, to be over. I don't have the luxury of shrugging and settling for just scraping by, because doing so will guarantee me a life in the mines come June or July – November at best, once the prime hunting season has passed and most edible flora out in the woods has been harvested or fallen to the frost. We won't have any tesserae from now on and must learn to do without, and I must find ways to bring in money enough to make that possible. I must perform well if I am to stand the slightest chance of getting a job anywhere else than down in those dirty, disgusting mines. I must perform better than my merchant classmates if I am to get presumptive employers there to consider me over people born and raised among themselves. If it were only about myself and my mother I might have opted to take my chances at starving once I can no longer collect tesserae, hoping for the woods to help me scrape by. But there is Prim to think about, and for her I would take a job in the mines if necessity demanded it. But I won't conform to that fate without putting up the best struggle I possibly can, which means that for the next few intense weeks I will have to put everything I've got into schoolwork. I'm relieved to have Gale's full support on this. In fact he's even offered to help put food on our table for a few weeks so that I can put everything into school.

I find a seat next to Madge at the back of the classroom, nodding in greeting as I pull out my chair. The usual morning ruckus is noticeably absent these days, the strain of the months to come evident to each and every person in our class. For the merchant kids it's the strain of an increased workload and a last chance at getting good grades. For the Seam kids it's knowing that the haven that childhood and school has offered is about to be over. It's almost eerie to not be surrounded by the usual onslaught of conversation going on all around me, even though I've often longed for people to be quieter before and after classes. The solemn expressions on many faces, in particular Seam faces, makes it hard to appreciate the comparative stillness, and the atmosphere in general is one of uneasiness and stress.

While I open my textbook and start turning pages to get to the right chapter I notice Peeta walking through the door. He's sporting a black eye that wasn't there before. It's been less than a week since the big wrestling tournament and his face is now clean-shaven, making the discolouration seem more prominent. Deciding I don't want to look at it, and that he probably doesn't want any attention called to it either, I avert my eyes, focusing on the textbook pages we'll be covering today. It's not easy to just put it from my mind though, and there's a knot tightening in the pit of my stomach just from knowing that the welt is there. I don't know that I can ever get used to seeing his face marred that way. It was less than a week ago that he won his last big wrestling tournament, the event he put so much effort and time into preparing for, and he could not be allowed a full seven days before something new had to happen to remind him of how sinister and unpleasant life can be in an outline district, whether you are a member of the more well-off class or not. I wasn't able to congratulate him of his win on the day in question, since he disappeared into a crowd of his friends almost immediately after emerging from the locker rooms, and now I find myself wishing I had sought him out in the days after to let him know I am proud of him, that I cheered him on from my spot on the bleachers, and that I felt such triumph when he won every one of his matches. I have been meaning to, but he's been quite popular following his victory, almost always surrounded by people – many of them girls, I've noticed. I didn't want to be another silly girl coming up to swoon over the big sports hero, even though unlike most of those girls I will still care about him a few weeks from now, and they will have moved on to something else. Nonetheless I wish I had talked to him, congratulated him. Doing so now would only seem like a reaction to his black eye, an attempt to cheer him up, and I think he would hate that. There is a right time to do things, and if you wait, if you put it off for too long, then it will almost inevitably end up being too late.

So I keep my peace, fuming on the inside, wishing he could be spared from having to take a beating. He's had enough of that in his life, hasn't he? And what could he possibly have done to make his mother hurt him this time? Oughtn't she to be proud of her youngest son for taking home the victory in the wrestling tournament? She must know how hard he's worked to achieve it.

He keeps a low profile during the day, retreating somewhere during every recess, sometimes with one of his friends, sometimes by himself. I don't know where he goes. It's a little jarring to realize. After all those months of working closely together I thought I had gotten to know Peeta fairly well. Today I wonder if I know him more than just on the very surface.

Only once during the long school day do our eyes meet. It's during math class, when I've walked up to the teacher's desk to hand in a finished assignment and grab the next. All around me heads are turned downward, each person focusing on their own math problems, or at the very least having the decency not to disturb anyone else who might be struggling. I get my new sheet of math problems and turn, letting my eyes run over the neat rows of equations, wishing fervently to myself that I will have more use out of arithmetic than algebra once school is done. Meanwhile Peeta, seated just a few rows down, is clenching his jaw and irately erasing something, losing his grip on the eraser just as I've begun to walk back down toward my own seat in the back of the room. It goes flying on the floor, landing by the desk on the other side of the narrow aisle, and with a barely contained sigh he pushes his chair back and leans down to pick it up. Instinctively I kneel down to grab it at the same time as he reaches for it, and my hand stops just a few inches away from his as he grabs the long, pale-yellow, well-used eraser and encases it in his fist. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, the look that meets my own seeming filled with pent-up frustration. I can barely see his right eye, the swelling still keeping it almost entirely shut. I think I must recoil at the sight, or gasp inaudibly or something, because while he doesn't flinch or make a sound it seems like it hurts him when we look at each other.

Then he sits back up without making a sound, the eraser moving rapidly over his math sheet, his left hand brushing the little rubber flakes away. I straighten up and continue to my seat next to Madge, feeling a thick lump in my throat that won't go away, no matter how many times I swallow.

* * *

After school I head straight home, to find that my mother and sister are already working on our evening meal. We usually don't eat quite so early, but Mother figures the sooner we eat, the sooner I can devote my evening to my studies. I have some time before the meal and I spend it fixing my game bag, which has a small hole at the bottom. While sewing is not my favourite thing to do I can handle needle and thread well enough to do some basic mending, and I sit cross-legged on the couch as I get the chore done. Buttercup lies on the end of the couch, eyeing me with an expression of boredom, lazily opening only one of his ugly eyes to look at me. It unnerves me, and I accidentally prick my finger on the needle, muttering a curse word under my breath before sticking the finger in my mouth to suck it clean of the small droplets of blood that appear. It should be just a few minutes' work to mend the bag, but it ends up taking me long enough that there's no point opening my school books before we eat. I put Mother's sewing kit back in its place and try to pass the time as best I can while I wait.

My mind is wrapped up in schoolwork, hunting, a black eye on a fair boy's face, things that have my attention to such a degree that I'm barely aware of what I'm eating or how it tastes, and I barely partake in conversation at the table. I don't think I speak five words except to ask my mother to pass the salt, and to mutter something complimentary about the food. Mother and Prim begin to discuss the idea of getting a cake for my birthday, but I ignore them, figuring it's not a serious suggestion. Maybe next year when I turn nineteen. Eighteen feels like less of a milestone. Once we're finished eating I excuse myself from the table and move to my bedroom to study. No one objects to me not helping out with the dishes, if anything they encourage me focusing on my grades right now. They both know as well as I do what's at stake, even though we've never spoken a word about it out loud. We've never had to.

After about twenty minutes a soft knock on the door interrupts me, and I call out for Prim – that knock is unmistakeably hers – to enter without taking my eyes off the coal mining book I've got my nose buried in. Ironically in order to avoid working in the coalmines I must first pass a mastodont exam on the subject of coal – essentially everything we've been taught on the subject for the past ten years all jammed into one enormous final exam one week before graduation. For most of my Seam classmates their score on the exam can play a huge part in determining what precise job they get once they set foot inside that cold, damp, smelly place. They keep the results on file for years on end and bring them out every time they need a new foreman, or a position opens up of a more administrative nature, or – inversely – whenever they need someone to do especially unpleasant work in especially nasty and dreary parts of the mines. As for me, I'm hoping it will help keep me out of the mines altogether.

"Hey," says Prim as she walks inside, her voice as soft as her knock.

"Hey little duck. If you were ever wondering why you should put your back into studying about coal, this upcoming exam of mine is why."

"I'd take coal over history any day of the week." Something in her voice sounds off, just the slightest hint of a tremble, so I turn my eyes away from the textbook and eye my baby sister with a worried scowl. She's got a very faint smile on her lips that doesn't come anywhere near her eyes, and she moves gently across the small room to take a seat on our bed, pulling one foot up underneath her and grabbing her knee with both hands. "Are you making any progress?" she asks.

"Some, I guess…" I say warily, twisting my upper body to be able to look at her, my left arm resting on the top of the chair.

"It must be pretty weird, huh? School being over so soon? At least you've got Gale, who's already been down that road," she says, sounding overly encouraging. "A boyfriend who knows what it's like."

"Sure…" I narrow my eyes slightly as I study her more closely. "Are you okay, Prim? Is everything alright with you?"

"Yeah!" she immediately chirps, nodding empathically for added effect. "I'm good!"

"Well I… I should get back to my studies…" I say hesitantly.

"Right. Sure." She smiles widely for a second, only for the corners of her mouth to drop really fast. Her eyes turn to the side and she bites the right side of her bottom lip.

"Prim." I say her name in a calmly imploring manner. Whatever this is about, I need to know. She seemed okay during dinner, didn't she? I wasn't really paying attention, but if something was amiss I would have noticed. Wouldn't I? What could possibly have happened since then? "There must be  _something_  on your mind. You wouldn't come in here just to say hi just half an hour after dinner."

"Nothing, I was just bored, that's all." For over a minute she refuses to look at me, seeming to look everywhere else in the room instead. Even when she begins to speak again she doesn't look at me at first, and that hint of a tremble is back in her voice. "So, uhm… I mean, since we're already talking…" She pauses again, and I have to fight the urge to prompt her. Something tells me that if I do that, she'll clamp up or change the subject. So I wait, and after another minute I get rewarded for my patience. Sort of. "I was just wondering, do you… I mean, whatever happened with you and…" She tries to hide a nervous gulp. "With you and Peeta?"

"With me and Peeta?" I echo, my brow furrowing deeply as I try to understand what she means.

"Yeah, I mean you guys seemed to be becoming quite good friends and then your project ended, and I was just curious if you guys spend time together at all anymore or if you're back to being just classmates," she rattles off hurriedly in one breath.

"Uhm.." I need a moment to figure out how to answer her. I'm not sure I understand what she's really asking, but I have a strong idea, and if I'm right I'm not at all happy about it. "Well, I mean… Peeta and I are friendly, but there's not much reason for us to hang out anymore." I pause, waiting –  _hoping_  – for her to jump in and protest that we have every reason in the world to hang out. In fact I'm even hoping she'll hint at the possibility of  _feelings_  between Peeta and myself, despite me being Gale's girlfriend, because that would mean I'm wrong about my assumption. But she doesn't say anything, and I start to feel really uncomfortable. Is it possible that my little sister has got a crush on the baker's son? Please don't let that be the case. "Why?" I finally ask, since she isn't clarifying things for me.

"No reason, I just…" She shrugs half-heartedly and keeps her eyes turned downward. "I like him. He's nice. I was just wondering if you talk to him at school at all, or anything like that."

"Prim," I say, doing my best to keep my own voice from trembling, "do you… like Peeta? I mean, real feelings? Is that what this is about?"

Her eyes fly up to meet mine, wide and either upset or surprised or both, and her cheeks turn a sharp shade of red.

"What?"

"Do you have a thing for Peeta?" I ask with more clarity, hating each word as it falls out of my mouth but determined to know the truth. I don't even know why that thought feels so abhorrent to me. He is the kind of boy I hope she will fall in love with one day, but she is far too young to be involved with someone who will be graduating in a few weeks. If Peeta were to develop feelings for her I would be furious at him for going after a girl four years his junior, and if he didn't reciprocate then her heart would break sooner or later, and I want to shield her from that.

"What's it to you?" she suddenly asks me in a catty tone after just staring at me in silence for a while, and my heart sinks to the bottom of my feet. "You're with Gale."

" _Prim_!" I exclaim, unable to stay calm any longer. "He's far older than you are, not to mention he's  _merchant_."

"Only you can see that as a hindrance to a relationship," she scoffs, moving back on the bed until she sits against the wall, giving me a defiant look. "We are the only kids in our school whose parents were from different parts of the district, yet you act as if it's an unsurmountable obstacle!"

"The  _only_ kids in our school," I emphasize. "That tells you  _nothing_?"

"Only that people are cowards or idiots or both." She scowls at me and crosses her arms, and even though the two of us hardly look alike at all I recognize that particular face from a lifetime of seeing it stare back at me in the mirror. "And anyway, no, I'm not in love with Peeta."

"Are you anywhere at all on that spectrum?" I ask her sternly, determined to get to the bottom with the true nature of her feelings towards him. "Crush? Infatuation?"

"No, dumbass!" she sasses me. "But I do think you could do a hell of a lot worse than have him for a friend, and if you weren't with Gale I might even be in favour of you hooking up with him, provided that your stubbornness would ever allow you to."

I stare at her with bewilderment, my mouth opening and closing repeatedly, wondering who this irritated teenaged girl is and why I've never seen or heard my little sister this way ever before.

"Well…" I then begin, stuttering a bit before I can get a cohesive sentence out, "what is it, then? What's up with you today?"

"Nothing!" she huffs, all theatrics and drama, and bounces towards the edge of the bed before getting down on the floor, all the while rolling her eyes. "Just forget about it, okay?"

"Primrose, what?" I say sternly, the tone in my voice making her stop in her tracks when she's about halfway to the door. She crosses her arms again, back half turned to me, face turned completely away. I switch gears and speak to her in the same gentle, loving tone I've used to comfort her a hundred times and more in the past. "Prim, something must have happened. Why won't you talk to me?"

I hear her take a few heavy breaths. Her face turns towards me just a little, enough so that I can see her profile.

"Did you see Peeta at school today?" Her voice again sounds small and this time the tremble is clearly noticeable.

"Saw him," I confirm. If she's not interested in him, why does she keep mentioning his name? "Didn't speak to him."

There's a long pause.

"How was he? Did he seem… okay?"

"Pretty much."

"Pretty much… But not entirely?"

"No," I say, again with a confused frown. "Not entirely."

She finally turns her head enough so that we can look directly at one another. She seems quite upset, and I immediately forget the sarcasms she threw at me a moment ago and want to walk over to her and pull her close.

"His face?" she asks.

"Same as always, aside from another gift from that shrew of a mother of his," I scoff, angry at the memory. "Though I suppose that more or less constitutes as 'same as ever', too."

"His mother didn't do anything to him," Prim says, slowly walking back to the bed and sitting down. She looks so distraught that I can't stay on my chair any longer. I get up and sit down beside her, pulling her into my embrace. She rests her head against my shoulder, her voice still trembling. "Yesterday, at last recess, these… people in my class who have been giving me a hard time, they… they came up to me and started… well, saying things that weren't so nice."

"Wait, what?" This shocks me even more than the idea that she might truly have a thing for Peeta. I almost pull back enough to be able to look at her but I'm not sure she wants to meet my eyes right now. "Who's been giving you a hard time? Since when? What exactly have they been doing, or saying?"

"It doesn't matter, Katniss," she says tiredly.

"It matters a whole lot!" I passionately disagree, feeling my blood begin to boil at the very thought. "Screw the damn coal exam, screw whatever happens after school is over.  _This_ , Prim,  _matters_."

"I don't want to make a big deal out of it, okay?" she pleads. "Look, I haven't told you about this because I knew you would want to rush to defend me. And I love you for that, so much. But I can't let you fight  _every_  battle for me anymore and come next semester you won't be able to anyway. I'd rather just ignore them and make it boring for them to be hard on me. Maybe then they'll stop on their own."

"Oh, Prim…" I whisper, pressing a kiss to her golden hair. My brave little sister. I don't know if these people are just saying things to her or if they're acting out against her in other ways, but somewhere deep inside I realize that there is truth to what she says. If I step in and defend her that might only serve to make things worse for her once I'm out of school. It probably  _is_  smartest to simply pretend like they don't affect her, but my heart breaks at the mere thought of it all. Thank goodness she at least has a group of friends, so that she's not entirely alone.

"Well, anyway…" She breathes in deeply and exhales in a huff. "Yesterday at last recess …this one guy said some things that were pretty hurtful and when I didn't show a reaction he… tried to humiliate me in front of everyone else who was around."

I swallow, a bitter taste in my mouth. I don't ask in what way he tried to humiliate her. It might be embarrassing for her to spell it out for me, whatever it was, and maybe the precise action doesn't matter. What matters is that he tried to do it in the first place. I wonder if it's a good thing that she won't tell me who these people are, since I might just go after them and hurt them if I knew.

"What happened?" I ask, feeling my mouth going dry.

"Nothing, in the end. Not to me, anyway." I finally pull back and feel relieved when she straightens her back a bit and looks at me. "They didn't get a chance to do anything before they were interrupted." She smiles faintly, even though she still looks rather sad. "By Peeta."

"Peeta?" I echo, having almost forgotten that the conversation started out centring around him.

"He was with some of his friends, passing through the hallway, and they saw what was going on. So he intervened."

The hint of a smile forms on my own face despite it all, a deep gratitude of my former project-partner beginning to glow inside me.

"I hope he gave them hell."

"Well, at first he just told them to knock it off. They started mouthing off to him and he seemed to get kind of angry but at that point he was still just telling them to grow up and stop harassing people." She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "Anyway, one of the girls was, I think, trying to show off in front of the guy who started the whole thing, and she got a bit too… in-your-face with me, and… took my backpack. Peeta took it back and I swear he didn't do anything to  _her_ , but she started screaming that he was all violent and crazy, and… and one of the guys punched Peeta in the face."

"Are you serious?" I say, almost unable to believe it. How did all this happen, and I didn't hear one word about it?

"I feel really terrible," says Prim unhappily. "But Peeta, he barely reacted at all to being punched. His friends got all threatening towards those guys but he just sort of took me aside and told me to lay low and try to not draw attention to myself. Sure enough, the next thing I know a couple of teachers showed up and got real mad at those who were visibly making a scene. By then recess was over and we had to go back to class, and I don't know what happened after that."

"I didn't even notice his face yesterday afternoon…" I mutter to myself, mentally kicking myself for it. Then I remember that Peeta sat in the far back during the last two classes, his hand on his brow, covering his eye quite well. Why did he bother doing that? Everyone's seen him bruised before.

"I wanted to go and thank him today, but I didn't know what to say," says Prim, sounding miserable. "You think he's okay? He didn't say  _anything_?"

"No, we didn't talk."

"You know, you should  _definitely_  go and buy a cake from him. Send some business their way, you know, like a small way of saying thank you."

"By making him bake a cake?" I say with incredulity. "It's stupid and irresponsible throwing money on something like that, Prim. Next year, when I turn nineteen. Okay?"

"I could go commission it!" she suggests. The proposal stuns me. Prim, who needs to spend half an hour summoning her courage before she buys eggs from the market. "Then I could get an opening to thank him in person."

"Unless Mrs. Mellark is the one taking the order," I point out.

"Right." Her face turns scarlet red. She looks so miserable over all this, and true to my sister's gentle heart she seems far more upset that someone got punched in the face for her than over people at school treating her cruelly. I wish I could cheer her up somehow, but no useful words come to me.

"Would you really like for us to have cake?" I ask after a minute. She smiles half-heartedly, but her nod is eager. "Alright, Prim. I'll stop by the bakery later this week and place an order."

"Yay!" she exclaims, clapping her hands with excitement. "Thank you, thank you!" I can't stop a smile, and when she gives me a hug I feel a little bit more at ease. My sister has never tasted real bakery cake before, and while it can't make up for her being harassed at school, at least it's something I can do to make her feel better and bring a rare sliver of luxury into her world.

And if Peeta is there when I go to place the order, I might get a chance to speak with him alone and thank him for helping my sister.

* * *

Prim asks me not to draw any attention to what happened while at school. I don't know if she feels awkward about it, or if she doesn't want to make it an even bigger deal, or if she might even be concerned that it might make her more of a target. Arriving at school on Thursday morning I have every intention of honouring her wishes, but I can't stop myself from immediately seeking Peeta out with my eyes. He's in a seat in a corner of the classroom, textbook open in front of him, waiting impatiently for class to start. People are still walking in, talking in hushed voices, finding their seats. I ought to find one for myself, but I stop when I notice him, unable to look away. I can't believe he got that bruise while standing up for my sister. I am torn between feeling unspeakably grateful to him and feeling like I am in terrible trouble because of it. Little by little he is burrowing his way deeper into my heart, I can't stop it and I can't afford that. I still don't feel sure if I any of the things I feel about him are genuine, or if I'm latching on to him like a means of escape from what could be a real, meaningful love affair with Gale. I  _want_  to have feelings for Gale, I'm just worried about the things that come along with it. If I am to care for anybody that way then it ought to be him, the person everyone seems to feel I belong with. It shouldn't be for the boy with the bread, a person far out of my league, unattainable and perhaps not even interested. Seemingly sensing my eyes on him he looks up at me. He seems uncomfortable, and he averts his eyes immediately. Why? Why would he be feeling any awkwardness about what happened? He did a very good thing, stood up for my sister, the one person I know for sure that I love.

I find a seat somewhere in the middle of the room and wait for our teacher to show up. Five minutes pass, then ten, then Mrs. Tungsten, who teaches home economics and all things Hunger Games, comes in to tell us that class has been cancelled this morning due to the teacher needing to stay home with three children struck with stomach flu. Half the people around me seem to groan over having to get up and get to school when they could have stayed home in bed for another hour, while the other half cheer over getting some free time. Mrs. Tungsten quiets everybody down by pointing out that any and all spare time ought to be spent preparing for the large number of tests coming up. Starting on Monday and continuing for two full weeks we will have one exam each morning and one in the afternoon. She suggests that we all study up on our Hunger Games knowledge and then leaves to teach her own class. I begin to gather my things, having no intention of studying that particular subject but pleased at an opportunity to continue studying for my coal exam. I didn't get much done last evening.

As people begin to leave the classroom to go study in the library or the assembly room – or to go to anything except for study – I linger behind. I know that Peeta will take some time getting his things ready, and I'm hoping to get a chance to speak with him. Just as I had hoped, our classmates clear out of the room within minutes, and only Peeta and I are left. It's a bit eerie being alone in here with him, and it feels almost as if we're trespassing, a thought that brings back the memory of when we broke into that room in the library. God, it feels like that was so long ago.

Slowly I walk over to him and stop a few feet away, adjusting my grip on my backpack, which is flung over my left shoulder.

"Hey," I say softly. "How's the eye?"

"Oh, you know…" he says evasively, jamming his pencil case in his bag. "It will be fine."

"Prim told me what happened. She really wants to thank you in person, but she's a bit… bashful. And ashamed, I think. Worried that you got hurt because of her."

"Really, it's fine," he says, a hint of stress in his voice. He stands up as if to leave. "We don't have to talk about it."

"I just wanted to say thank you." Resisting the urge to reach out my hand and caress his bruised skin I settle for smiling softly. "I can't thank you enough."

He looks deeply uncomfortable, shifting his weight between his feet, looking around in a way that suggests he's willing to look everywhere but right at me. I put one hand on his upper arm in a gentle gesture and his eyes shift and turn down to his feet, his weight still shifting back and forth.

"Look, I, uh…" he begins. "I mean, I… I… I'm glad Prim is okay."

"Yeah," I nod. "Thanks to you."

"I didn't do it for her," he admits in a quick exhale. "I mean, I like Prim, she's a good kid. But I didn't do it for her."

"You'd do it for anyone. It's like I said to you the last day of the project. You're a great person."

Finally, he stops shifting his weight and looks up at me, his eyes bearing into mine.

"I did it for you."

"What? For… for  _me_?"

"I don't know your sister all that well," he says, making a face. His hand comes up and scratches his neck. "But I know you. We're friends, right?" He shrugs. "So, I did it for you."

"Should I believe that?" I ask. My tone is friendly and warm but a look of having been insulted comes over his face. "You did something similar for me several years ago, and you didn't know me then."

He takes a deep breath, evading his eyes again and shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Katniss if you only…" Then he shakes his head and clears his throat. "I should go."

"Before you do…" I say, rising to my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. His now cleanly shaven skin feels strangely smooth under my lips. "Thank you. Are you ever going to stop making me beholden to you?"

For reasons I can't understand he doesn't look pleased at all. If anything, he looks like I just gave him another black eye.

"Please, don't say that," he begs. "That makes me sound so…" Then he shakes his head and takes a step back. "But I guess maybe I am," he adds in a mutter, more to himself than to me, and I don't get what he's referring to. He gives me a quick look. "I've got to go. Tell Prim I'm glad she's doing okay."

And then he's gone. I'm left standing there puzzled, unable to understand what's got him acting so out of sorts. It takes me another five minutes to realize I never even got to asking him about having a cake made for my birthday.

* * *

Friday after school I head straight out into the woods in the hopes of catching some game, which I might then sell to help pay for the cake I promised Prim I would get. Luck is on my side, and almost immediately I come across a flock of turkeys. I shoot the largest one, the rest instantly scattering, and bring the bird to one of the peacekeepers' doorstep where I sell it for a decent sum. Now that I have a bit of extra coin in my pocket I feel better about spending money on something I consider to be frivolous, and so I head to the bakery. It doesn't cross my mind that since I'm here to shop, not trade, I could go inside the store. Instead I head for the back door, like I always do, and knock.

I recoil just a touch when the door opens to reveal Ryean Mellark, who very rarely answers the door. His face is flushed from the heat inside the kitchen and his apron is uncommonly dirty, suggesting he's been hard at work for a long time today. He doesn't look surprised to see me, though I suppose there are few others who come knocking on their back door like this, but what surprises  _me_  is that despite him appearing to have a lot on his hands at the moment he doesn't seem irritated by my being here. When we came by to trade during their spring cleaning he seemed really exasperated by our presence, but for whatever reason he doesn't seem bothered now. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder before giving me what seems like an entertained look.

"Well good day, Miss Everdeen," he says with a lopsided smirk. "Don't usually see you on a Friday afternoon. If you left your Seam sweetheart in the mines to come and be ogled by my brother then I fear I must disappoint. Peeta's busy and doesn't have time to hang out by the back door and waste oxygen for however long you had in mind."

"Is your father here?" I ask, ignoring his words and taking care to sound polite and business like. "I came to, uh… commission a cake."

Ryean's eyes widen a touch, but he doesn't make any comment about how unusual it is for a Seam girl to make such a request. Probably they do at least some of their business with coalminers, but to my knowledge the Everdeens have never bought a specially commissioned cake. I was considering simply choosing one out of their standard selection, but I recall Peeta telling me at one point that those cakes range from six to twelve slices, which makes even the smallest one is twice what I need. This cake is for me, my mother and my sister, and I don't have the money to spend on a larger cake than needed.

"When do you need it?" Ryean asks. He sounds surprisingly kind, professional in fact, which is a relief. I half expected him to mock me. "This is a really busy time of year for us, with the Reaping coming up, and the summer weddings and everything…"

"The Reaping is in a month," I comment, not quite sure how that adds up. "And summer weddings even further away."

"It takes time to order special ingredients, and plan everything out, and, well, lots of other boring bakery details you don't care about. Meanwhile we've got to keep our regular business going. I'm just trying to give you a heads' up. We'll need at least three weeks for a special arrangement. Seven days for something more basic."

"I want basic. Something small. I don't care about… flower beds on top of the cake, or cakes made up to look like birds' nests, or cakes looking like those pictures of galaxies in our school books." Deep down I want to someday have a cake like the beautiful ones on display at the storefront window, but I can only imagine how much extra that would cost. Having a bakery made cake at all is a luxury I've never been able to indulge in, and I tell myself the only important part is how it tastes.

"Well that's a pity," says Ryean, the corner of his mouth turning upward for a second. "Peeta will be so disappointed to hear that."

I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment and I avert my eyes, unable to look Peeta's brother in the eye. I can't tell if he's teasing me or not. I do know, though, that any cake decorated by Peeta would be like an edible masterpiece, and I do my best to convince myself that it would be too precious to ruin by eating, thereby negating the whole purpose of getting the cake in the first place. So much better then to get something standard, with just icing or marzipan on top.

"I want something basic," I repeat in a mumble. "And if it could be ready by next week, that would be good."

"We might be able to have it ready by the end of next week. Come inside, talk to my father." Ryean steps aside and gestures for me to walk past him into the kitchen. I hesitate with my foot on the threshold. I've never been inside before. I don't know why the thought of it makes me nervous. Ryean sees my hesitation and rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to shove you into one of the ovens; get inside or go around to the storefront and talk to my mother about a standard cake."

Hurriedly I walk through the door, knowing for sure that the last thing I want is to go inside the store and talk to the terrible Mrs. Mellark. As I enter the kitchen I'm surrounded by the heat from several ovens operating at once, and above all from an overwhelming, mouth-watering smell of baked bread. Ryean closes the door behind me and with both a nod and a pointing finger directs me to a half-open door in the other end of the room. Filled with a sudden curiosity I am about to take a good look around and take in my surroundings when the swinging door to the store portion of the building opens and Ryean's brothers walk in, deeply engrossed in a conversation full of phrases and lingo that hardly mean a thing to my ears. Not that I care one iota about the words they are saying. My eyes are drawn to Peeta, whose face seems just a little bit better than yesterday. He doesn't appear to notice me, however, having his attention fully on a tray in his brother's hands.

"I don't think the colour is quite right, yet," he says, his tone as serious as if he were discussing a life-changing decision. "I would like just a bit more pink."

"That will make it garish," argues Scotti. He sets the tray down on a kitchen island and turns around and opens a large cooler of some sort. Smoky puffs of cold air come pouring out when the door opens, and for a brief moment the heat in the kitchen seems to lessen. He takes a tray out and closes the door. "But hey, you're the artist. If you want more pink, go with more pink." He sets the tray down carefully next to the first one, and I marvel at the perfectly round decimetre-high lavender ball sitting on it, though I have no idea what it is. Scotti looks at his youngest brother, then he notices me, and gives me a small nod. If he's surprised to see me inside the kitchen he doesn't show it. "Oh, hey Katniss."

Not until he speaks my name does Peeta notice me. His uninjured eye seems to widen a touch, and like his brother he nods in greeting.

"Katniss. Hello."

"Say hi to my brothers," Ryean instructs me, and I blush again, realizing I haven't said a word in greeting to either of them, or even nodded in return. "Then go say hi to our father. Hope you don't mind, we're rather busy."

"Of course," I say with a hurried nod, awkwardly saying hello to Peeta and Scotti. I begin to walk towards the open door Ryean directed me towards, feeling three pairs of blue eyes on me. I will myself not to blush again, feeling quite awkward about it all. The two who arrived last must be wondering what I'm doing here, and I stop right outside the door, turning my head to meet Peeta's gaze. "I'm here to commission a cake," I explain lamely. As if I needed to justify my being here.

"Yeah, they figured that out," says Ryean, and now his tone is mocking me even though it's not overt. "On account of this being a bakery, and them not being exceedingly stupid."

"Way to make our customers feel welcome," says Scotti dryly. Then it appears that he has lost interest in my presence, and he begins to talk to Peeta about different hues of pink again. I take the opportunity to knock on the door and the second Mr. Mellark calls out for me to enter I flee inside the small office before the middle Mellark boy can say anything else that will make me feel uncomfortable or make my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Mr. Mellark is such a kind man. I know he must be surprised to see me in his office ordering a cake, but he treats it like the most natural situation in the world, even though it immediately becomes obvious that I have no idea what I'm doing or what I actually want. I want a four-piece cake, but other than that I had no idea there were so many options. Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry? Banana or jam? Cream or custard? Glaze or marzipan? Even though it's just a stupid cake I soon begin to feel overwhelmed, and it surprises me how much that upsets me. I must look as lost as I feel, because Mr. Mellark rises from behind his desk, walks around to stand next to me, and with a gentle, friendly smile makes a few simple suggestions. I suppose it's correct to say that he more or less decides everything about the flavours of the cake, but I have a strong suspicion that he's not making random suggestions or lucky guesses. A sponge cake base, a thin layer of raspberry jam, a buttercream and coconut glaze, all things that I know I've told Peeta that I like, or would like to try at some point.

"And you need it for the end of next week?" asks Mr. Mellark, taking notes on a small pad.

"Yeah," I say evasively. Then I shrug slightly. "It doesn't really matter. Peeta can tell me at school when it's ready and I'll pick it up later that day."

"Surely it's got to matter  _when_  it's ready." Mr. Mellark studies me with one eyebrow raised just a touch. "What is the occasion?"

Again I feel embarrassed. My birthday is on Monday, but I never gave a thought to whether or not a cake needs to be ordered several days in advance. I hesitate to answer, ashamed to admit I dropped the ball on forward planning. But I also can't come up with a convincing lie, so after about a minute I drop my gaze to the hands I'm wringing in my lap and mumble my answer.

"It's for my birthday."

"When is that?"

"Monday." Quickly I look up and meet his kind eyes, so similar to his son's but without the alluring element to them. "But it doesn't matter if it's not done until next weekend. We haven't decided when we'll celebrate, anyway." That last part is a lie, but not entirely. I assume we'll celebrate when we have the cake to celebrate with.

"Your eighteenth birthday?" he asks, and I confirm with a nod. He smiles kindly. "We will have the cake ready for you on Monday after school, Katniss." I open my mouth to protest but he holds up a hand and stops me. "I won't hear of any objections. Follow Peeta back here when school is out on your birthday and he will make sure the cake is in your hands as you leave."

Feebly I try to think of something to say, some way of protesting, but I can't think of anything. He's being so kind to me, just like he always has been, and he's never had any reason to. It feels wrong to repay his kindness and generosity by trying to argue about it. And I guess that a four-piece cake is much faster to make, especially one that has no decorations on top.

"Thank you, Mr. Mellark," I say, a rush of affection for Peeta's thoughtful father coming over me. I rise and shake his hand, managing just the faintest smile.

When I walk back out into the kitchen I'm struck by how serene it seems, despite the hectic tempo and the work load that remains high even though it's less than an hour until closing time. Judging by the dozens of loaves of bread lined up on a counter, and the additional five that Ryean is currently taking out of one of the largest ovens, they have a large order of bread for tomorrow morning. I know from Darius that the peacekeepers have a monthly Saturday morning meeting during which they discuss whatever it is that peacekeepers need to discuss with one another, and typically they enjoy a hearty breakfast during that meeting. I hadn't thought about it before, but there are well over a hundred peacekeepers in District 12, and not even the most efficient family of bakers would be able to bake bread for all of them in one morning. It seems, though, that Ryean is doing this baking on his own. Scotti is moving back and forth between the kitchen and the store at a rapid pace, and each time he passes through the swinging door there's a hum of voices coming from the other room, suggesting several customers still there even at this hour. Each time he comes back to the kitchen he's picking up a box of some form of baked goods, and each time he stops for a second to observe what Peeta is doing.

That is what I am doing, too. Stopping to observe Peeta. He barely seems to be aware of my presence, in fact if he hadn't looked up briefly when I came back from his father's office I would have assumed he was unaware of my presence. I know I shouldn't be here still, my business is done for today, and I know Prim is waiting anxiously at home to hear about the cake that I ordered. I find it hard to leave though, mesmerized by the magic he seems to be capable of creating with his bare hands. I know he's talented, I think everyone knows that about the baker's youngest son, but I've never seen him actually at work with this before, and it's captivating.

"How's it coming along, Peeta?" asks Ryean as he swiftly moves bread loaves from the hot tin to a cooling grate, seemingly unaffected by the heat of the steaming hot bread.

"Mmm, fine, I guess," mumbles Peeta, full of concentration.

Tentatively I step closer to where he's working, making sure I don't make any noise or do anything that might distract him from what looks like delicate work. Though it seems I needn't worry, because Scotti comes bursting through the door again and stops to lean over the tray his brother is working on, clicking his tongue approvingly.

"I think you were right about the colour," he comments. "It looks just right."

Peeta makes a humming sound in response, but otherwise doesn't seem aware that his brother is even there. He doesn't seem aware of his other brother, either, or the rustle and bustle, or me, the intruder in the kitchen. Behind me I hear the office door open with a creak that lets on that it needs oiling, and Mr. Mellark's heavy footsteps come closer to me. His large, steady hand lands on my shoulder for a few seconds and reluctantly I take my eyes off of what Peeta is creating and look up at the baker.

"He's talented, isn't he?" The quiet voice is full of fatherly pride. I can only nod. There doesn't seem to be any other words that could accurately describe what I'm seeing, so there is no point in trying.

"What is it?" I take the opportunity to ask, my voice a whisper, just like Mr. Mellark's.

"I guess you could call it a mousse cake. Instead of a traditional wedding cake. For a wedding tomorrow."

He goes on to explain it in great detail, but I only pretend to listen beyond the first description. Half of what he says makes no sense to me anyway, and it sounds needlessly complicated. Not only that, but it is much, much smaller than a traditional wedding cake, which means that either this couple is spending a lot of money on a private toasting, or a family-only affair, or someone wanted this particular dessert so badly that they were willing to forego the cake. As I watch the dish take shape on the tray in front of Peeta, I find myself assuming that it's not even the mousse itself, or any of the flavours involved, that the bride and groom are so keen on, but the aesthetics. I have never seen anything like it, and I can't imagine that anyone else in the district – including Mr. Mellark and his wife and sons – ever have either. How Peeta is able to create it, and with no guidebook or even a picture to help, amazes me to such a degree that I utterly forget the time, or even where I am. I have to stay and watch this wedding mousse be sculpted until it is completed. Peeta seems to have forgotten me entirely, Ryean pays me no heed and the baker himself would have asked me to leave several minutes ago if he had any problem with me staying to watch this. I think he's rightfully proud of his son, and more than happy to allow an audience.

Peeta is working with something his father calls white moulding chocolate, though it's been dyed a bright, cerise hue of pink, and it's evident for what purpose. Carefully, meticulously, Peeta uses a small, very sharp knife to cut slices of the pink chocolate. He then takes the slices and bends them, shapes them, somehow transforms them into petals of a beautiful, edible rose, assembling it on the dome shaped mousse, which I can now see is frozen, which in turn appears to make it easier for him to work with. It's mesmeric to watch it take shape, and I don't think I've ever seen anything you can eat look this beautiful. But after a little while I catch myself watching the patissier as much as I'm watching the creation he's working on. It's as if there's a whole new man before my eyes, one I've only seen glimpses of during the past six months. He's got a whole other intensity about him when he's concentrating this way; even though one of his eyes is swollen almost entirely shut he is capable of seeing things that the rest of us do not. It's as if he can already see the finished rose before his eyes, real as the knife he uses to cut chocolate slices, or the dome of mousse that forms the basis of his creation. As if all he's doing is placing the cerise chocolate petals in places and in ways that have already been laid out for him, like in first grade when we got to colour by numbers to help learn the numerals.

Suddenly, without warning, he turns his eye away from the nearly finished rose and looks right at me. When our eyes meet it feels like I've been caught spying on him, but I know that's not the sole reason why a jolt of electricity runs through me. He keeps his eye on me for maybe ten seconds, and the intensity makes me have to look away. Is he self-conscious over me watching him work?

Somewhere in that moment, when the intensity forces me to look away, I come to my senses and realize what on earth I have been doing for the past… well, however long it has been. I came here to commission a cake, I did that already, and now I ought to go. I ought to have left a while ago. My cheeks are suddenly flushing hot again, and I look around to try and figure out the nearest route to the door without being in anyone's way. I head there quietly, discreetly, hoping not to disturb anyone. Peeta has already gone back to the chocolate flower, working as if he has forgotten that I was even here to begin with, and for a brief, selfish moment that makes me feel deeply disappointed.

"Peeta that flower, it's… it's absolutely wonderful," I say with my hand on the doorknob.

He makes an acquiescent noise in the back of his throat, but his focus is clearly on the mousse cake thing, and not on me, or anything else. I feel dismissed, which is a strange feeling to have around him. And when I leave and begin my long walk home, the lingering feeling is one of having been rejected. I shouldn't find that strange, or upsetting even, but for some reason I do. That desert is going to turn out masterfully, but today I was secondary in his attention to pastry. I'm realize I'm not used to not having his full attention when I want it. The realization makes me feel funny – partially it's a nice feeling to have him focus entirely on me when he does, partially I feel like a bad person for wanting to be the focal point of his attention like that. I mean, really, who feels upset because they were upstaged by pastry? And he was working! I love that he puts so much care into his craft.

Shaking my head to clear it I hurry along the way, eager to get home and get out of the rain that has begun to fall. For the moment I force myself not to think about the patissier.

* * *

On Monday afternoon, when the last class is over, Peeta comes up to me and asks me to follow him back to the bakery to get my cake. He looks better now, the swelling almost entirely gone and the welt no longer dark, but a much paler green hue. It still mars his handsome face, but it also reminds me every second I see it that he stood up for my sister. I'm still not entirely clear about his reasons for doing so, or why he won't own up to his moral courage. But I have decided not to press the issue. There is a lot I don't know about Peeta Mellark, and if he doesn't want me to know more about this then I won't press the issue.

I gather my things and catch up with him by the main entrance, and together we walk through the streets in town, where spring is blossoming all around us. I draw a deep breath through my nose to enjoy all the smells in the air and he laughs and gives me a warm smile. I smile back at him, feeling a growing excitement and curiosity over what my cake will taste like – and how it will look. Peeta helped make it, didn't he? I feel almost sure of it, but I feel bashful asking, so I leave it be.

"It feels weird that you're not running off to wrestling practice," I say, deciding I should try and make conversation when we've made it halfway to our destination. "It's Monday afternoon."

"Wrestling competition has come and gone," he says with a shrug. He gets a melancholy, wistful look on his face as he stares off into the distance. "Yeah, it's strange. So many years of my life, the entire time I've gone to school, and now it's over and done with. Just like that."

I think to myself that it's a real exercise in futility, putting all that time and energy into something that just dissipates after one last event, but I don't say it. It would offend him, and I don't want that. Instead I smile softly and give him a nudge with my shoulder.

"At least you won. Went out with your head held high."

He hums in response, tilting his head from side to side a couple of times in acquiescence. He doesn't say anything more, and I can't think of anything to say either, so we stay silent for the duration of the walk. He seems comfortable enough with this, so I decide I can be, too. I find it's pleasant enough just to walk beside him, though I can't ignore how several people give us odd looks along the way, as if they are judging us for walking side by side through town, a merchant and a Seam child. It infuriates me. What, they think we are romantically involved and they disapprove? To hell with them! I almost want to take Peeta's hand in mine, just to show off and to spite them all, but I refrain from doing so. Peeta would no doubt be confused if I did, and I don't feel like explaining, even though I think he would understand.

We reach the bakery, and I stop in my tracks when he doesn't turn to go into the alleyway but continues to the door to the shop. He opens it, and I hear a bell ringing inside, but he stops on the threshold and smiles slightly at me. I remain frozen in the spot.

"You coming?"

"We're not, uhm… not going to the kitchen?"

"No, finished cakes are kept in the store." I scowl but he doesn't seem to notice. "We have better refrigerators there, to keep them to the right temperature."

"Okay…" I say slowly, hesitantly.

He holds the door open for me and I step inside the bakery, for the first time in my whole life. I've looked through the window so many times but never been through the door. With some trepidation I enter, struck at once by how it smells so nice, yet it's not an overpowering smell like it can be in the kitchen. There are several small tables where you can sit and have something to eat and drink, and though I had expected the walls to be lined with rows of baked goods all of that is kept at a large counter in the other end of the store. The counter has a large glass window allowing their selection to be on display. Behind the counter there are large wooden crates lined with towels, containing a wide selection of bread. On the wall is a large blackboard detailing everything they have for sale, and what the prices are. My mouth waters instantly, but the presence of Peeta's mother behind the counter keeps my excitement contained. She glares at me with disapproval, but obviously knows why I'm here as she goes to a refrigerator in the corner and takes out a small, blue cardboard box, handing it to her son. Peeta smiles at me and opens the box to let me appraise the cake before I pay for it – as if anything would make me reject something he had taken part in baking.

The cake is small, just the size I wanted. The buttercream glaze makes it look golden, and even though I specified that I didn't want any decorations on the cake about half of it is covered in what looks like real sand and spread out among the grains are tiny katniss flowers made out of something I can't identify on sight. That's not quite how they grow in real life, but I can see the thought behind it, and I'm momentarily stunned. I look at Peeta with wide eyes, not knowing what to say. I'm overwhelmed, endeared, touched, but at the same time I said no to decorations because I can't afford any. Peeta closes the box and ties it up with string, then walks around the counter and up to me, taking me by the arm and leading me towards the door. His mother clears her throat, reminding me that I haven't paid yet, but Peeta seems unconcerned. He stops us at the door and hands the box to me. I take it, holding it by the string, almost afraid to move my hand in case it will tilt and somehow be ruined.

"Decorations are free of charge," he whispers to me, giving me a smile that's so charming it melts away my refusal. "My birthday present. A guy's got to be allowed to give his ex-project wife something for her birthday, don't you agree?"

"How… That sand looks so…"

"Oh. That's just pie crust crumb." His smile is inescapable, and I turn the corners of my own mouth upward in return, worried he might think I don't absolutely love what he's created for me. Quickly I then reach inside my pocket and fish out the exact sum the cake was going to cost, handing the money to him and feeling awkward that the bills are so creased and crumpled.

"Thank you," I say in a sincere whisper, my eyes telling him my feelings far better than my mouth ever could. He nods and holds open the door for me, the bell ringing again when the door opens. I step outside and stop on the street, looking into his eyes again, almost wanting not to leave even though Prim is at home, anxiously awaiting to see what I bring home.

"Katniss," he says, his smile changing into something even warmer. "Happy birthday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been getting requests to "bring back" baking Peeta, and since I realized I haven't written anything about him baking anything specific in quite some time I thought it could work nicely with the storyline in this paricular chapter. I've got an entire chapter centered around him baking, something I wrote well over a year ago in fact, but it takes place later on in the timeline and couldn't be moved, so for now this is what you get. I confess I know very little about baking, but the thing he creates here is based on something I've come across myself.
> 
> About Prim and what's going on with her, it's not going to play any significant role right away since their school year is almost over. It might come back later on though, when she's back to school without having her sister around. Just how much room her subplot of becoming a young adult will get is for the future to tell, but elements of it will be included for sure.
> 
> Coming up in the next couple of chapters: Graduation, the Reaping for the 76th Hunger Games, and something many people have been waiting for...
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback would be much appreciated. =)


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting on my computer for a full week now, but my private life has been very hectic and I haven't had the time to post it. I haven't even given it a read-through, so I hope there are no glaring mistakes in there. I probably won't be able to update, or reply to any comments, in a while. I hope you guys can forgive me for that.
> 
> As for the new chapter, I realized when I had plotted this part of the story out that in the books Katniss talks about school being cancelled during major events in the Games. I had put her graduation about two weeks ahead of the Reaping, and it works best that way within the narrative of the fic, so I decided that seniors graduate early and evertyone else stays in for a month more, or so.

Every year of my life from the time when I was five, I have been attending school. My eighteenth birthday now behind me, that makes for thirteen years all in all. Thirteen years that will all be culminating in one day a week and a half from now. During the first eight or nine years graduation was an abstract thought, something we all knew was coming but which didn't quite seem real. We had all been to school for practically all our lives, most of us having few to no memories of the time before we began our education, and it seemed we would continue like this forever. But then came a time when we all began to see the finish line. Some had older siblings who graduated; almost all of us knew someone one, two, three years older than ourselves and watched them celebrate their graduation day, continued our last weeks of the semester without the senior class, and then when the next semester came about they were no longer in school. Suddenly graduation became something real, something to strive and look forward to. Even though I think all of us from the Seam feel school is a luxury compared to the lifetime that awaits us down in the mines, there's still something special about ending your education and moving forward to another phase of your life. Even for me, who dreads the changes to come, who would love to be able to hold on to the familiarity of being a student, and who looks with trepidation upon having to shoulder all adult responsibilities, the thought of graduation carries an element of positivity. It's an accomplishment. Something to feel proud of. A milestone in life which I can enjoy and be happy about.

I think all of us, my entire class, have been looking forward to this to some degree or other for the past few years, and especially this year. When winter solstice had come and gone, and the days began to grow longer, and the new year began, there was a rise in the mood in our class, a building excitement over the special day we would collectively share. I heard people whispering about it during class sometimes, chat about it by their lockers, share their thoughts and hopes about that day while they were eating their lunches. And even though I haven't participated in any of those conversations I've still felt like I've been a part of it. It is  _our_  day, our entire class'. We've been going to school together for thirteen years and now we get to celebrate its ending together.

But now, when graduation day is less than two weeks away, it seems all air has gone out of the excitement. Hardly anyone talks about it, and those who do have very little of the excitement that I've been hearing all year. Most of the time we all seem to act as if it's not even happening, making no mentions of graduation parties or how this or that person plans to wear their hair, or anything really. And it's not because we've all collectively come to the sudden realization that once we step out of the school building for the final time as students there's a whole other life waiting for us, one with jobs and bills to pay and all of the hardships that come with that, nor is it because people are sad to say goodbye to schoolmates or sad in general that this part of their life is coming to an end.

The reason is the Reaping. That one, final reaping that looms over us, that might keep two of us from progressing from student to worker, from young adult to adult, that might snatch away the adult life we are at the cusp of. I don't believe a single one of us has forgotten during the year that this last Reaping is before us, but it's been viewed as a different entity. And it still is, but that it's coming right at the heels of our last day of school makes it impossible now not to think about. When we should be getting more and more excited instead our dread is growing day by day.

"If you think about it, it's actually a second graduation," says Madge as we sit down underneath an oak tree to have our lunch outside, only six school days remaining in our lives. "When it's over, our names will be gone from the Reaping Bowls forever."

"But until then we haven't truly graduated," I reply, following her line of thought. I take a bite from the tiny apple which is the last of the bag I bartered over at the Hob many months ago. It's dried and sour and I make a face at the taste, never having had much of a liking for sour. "It's hard to enjoy the end of school when that last Reaping comes shortly after. It's hard to think about anything else."

An uncharacteristic scowl darkens Madge's fair features and she looks pensive as she opens her food bag and carefully lifts out a sandwich made from soft, fresh rye bread. Even from a few feet away I can feel its smell and it makes my mouth water.

"Well I'm not going to let them do that to me," she says in a voice lowered to protect her words from ears that aren't meant to hear them. "I'm not going to let the Capitol take away my enjoyment of a day I've been waiting so long for. I will worry about the Reaping the day after graduation and not a minute before."

She takes a surprisingly large bite from her sandwich and chews with a sullen yet determined expression on her face. I stare at her wordlessly, shocked by the defiance displayed by the usually so mild and complacent Madge Undersee. Despite the shock I find myself impressed.

* * *

The sun is shining from a clear blue sky when I exit through the main doors together with the rest of my classmates. We've just finished a small ceremony in our homeroom, having our final grades handed to us and saying goodbye to our teachers and to each other. Most of my classmates will say more proper goodbyes tonight at the various graduation parties, but I won't be attending any of them. For me, this has been farewell. We will still see each other around the district of course, and many will keep the friends they've made during these thirteen years, but no one will keep in touch with  _everyone_.

Out on the schoolyard a small crowd has assembled. Family and friends of those of us who have graduated today, all standing in small, individual groups as if it were a crime to stand too close to someone who has come to congratulate somebody else. I manage a half-hearted smile, knowing that's what's expected of me. Everybody hails this as a monumental day in our lives and I wish I could see it that way but to me it's the end of steady routines I've had since I was five years old and the beginning of an uncertain future. The possibility of having to find work in the mines sends a shiver of anxiety through me and I have to really strain myself to keep the smile in place.

My classmates scatter, each going to their little group of congratulators and well-wishers. Some cheer, some even cry. I look around, trying to spot my mother and Prim, but they're not among those in front. I didn't expect them to be, not really. It takes a minute of wading through the crowd to find them and the first thing I notice is that they're not alone. Gale's family is there too, with only him missing. I wasn't expecting him to show up. They don't give mineworkers the day off for something like this unless they are a parent or a sibling to the graduating person. I try to make my smile seem more genuine and I lift my hand in a little wave as I approach them. It's a very nice gesture on Hazelle and the kids' part to come, and I feel genuinely touched. My eyes find Prim and she's jumping up and down with uncontrolled excitement. The sight manages to bring an actual smile to my lips and I feel genuinely good for the first time today when she throws her arms around my neck and I find my face buried in her golden hair.

"Congratulations!" she cheers. "You graduated!" She pulls back a little and whispers in my ear. "I know you don't think it's that big a deal but I'm proud all the same."

I smile at her and kiss her cheek, wishing she knew how much I care about her. Her being proud of me is a very big deal to me, whether I think graduation is or not. Next I hug my mother, whose embrace is reserved but still warm. Her hand cradles the back of my head and she too whispers in my ear.

"Your father… I wish he could have been here today… He would have been so proud of you, Katniss. So proud."

"It's no big deal," I say, feeling oddly emotional at the mention of my father. I miss him so much some days. "Everybody graduates sooner or later. It's not like it took any special effort on my part."

"He would have been proud," she says again, pulling back from the hug.

I don't want to look at her right now, the moment feeling a bit strange, so I turn to Hazelle and her children instead. There are more hugs and more well-wishes and I try my best to sound genuinely grateful when I thank them. I  _am_  grateful, grateful that they are here, even if the congratulations themselves are mostly meaningless to me.

"It's so nice of you to have come," I say to Hazelle.

"Katniss of course we came," she answers, smiling warmly at me. Her hand comes up and strokes my cheek. "You're part of the family now."

The smile freezes on my face, a wave of uncomfortableness coming over me. Why does that feel so strange when she says it? Haven't we all been a kind of extended family to one another over the past several years? But that's not what she meant. She meant something else, I could tell by the way she said it and the look in her eyes. She meant because of me and Gale, because we're together. I don't know that I'm ready to have us be defined as family in that sense.

"Gale sends his congrats," says Rory. "He wanted to be here. Well, you know that already. But they wouldn't give him the day off."

"He shouldn't take the day off even if he had the opportunity," I object. "Being here for fifteen minutes is not worth losing an entire day's wages."

"Gale thinks you're worth far more than that," says Hazelle, and my mouth feels strangely dry.

"Katniss!"

I turn my head at the unexpected sound of Peeta Mellark's voice. I'm taken aback seeing him standing there only a few feet away, his family nowhere in sight. I know they all came so why has he wandered off from them?

"Hey… Peeta…" I manage.

"Happy graduation," he smiles. "I know what this day means to you."

The corners of my mouth turn upward just the slightest bit. He knows.

"Congratulations yourself," I reply.

"It's too bad we never got around to arranging that graduation bash we spent hours planning," he says, a playful glint in his eyes. I blush and look down at the ground for a second, remembering those early days of our working together. Then I look up at him and smile, feeling a rush of fondness at the memories. "But, party or no party, I have something for you."

"You… You what?"

He reaches inside the satchel thrown over his shoulder and lifts out an oval shaped object wrapped in a towel. Bread. My eyes widen, and I want to protest but before I can get a word out he's handed it to Prim whom he knows won't try and make him take it back. The bread obviously isn't fresh from the oven but there's still a faint scent there and despite myself I draw a deep breath, enjoying its loveliness. Peeta then wraps his arms around me and pulls me close for a hug. Spontaneously I wrap my arms around him too, briefly closing my eyes and inhaling again, this time filling my nose with his scent. His embrace feels warm and solid and yet soft. There's a kind of comfort there, a serenity in the middle of the many happenings of the day. I have just enough time to wish that it wouldn't end too soon when he pulls back, smiling warmly at me.

"I'll see you around, Katniss," he says to me, his voice low, as if he doesn't mean for anyone else to hear. Then he addresses Prim in a normal tone of voice but keeps his eyes locked with mine. "Don't let her try and sneak by the bakery and leave that bread on the doorstep or something. It's a gift."

"But I didn't give you anything," I protest.

"Gifts don't work that way. In fact they kind of lose their purpose if you only give them expecting one back. How did you go to school for thirteen years and never learn the definition of that word?" His eyes have a mischievous glint in them as he teases me, but then he turns serious. "Anyway, I should go. I told my family I would be back in five minutes."

He's still standing so close to me that we're practically touching but now he steps back and after a nod and a quick greeting to my mother he turns and begins to walk back to where his family is waiting.

"Peeta!" I call out and he stops and turns. There's a moment of silence. "I can't accept this bread."

"Sure you can," he says. Then he winks at me. I wonder if he's aware that the eye he winks with is the same one his mother turned black and blue that day six years ago. Probably I'm the only one who recalls that, or would even think about something like that in the middle of graduation.

He disappears into the crowd and I feel sad and even a little bit empty watching him go. Was this him saying goodbye for good? We won't be seeing each other at school anymore. Who knows where he will end up being a week or month from now? Will he still be at the bakery when I come to trade or will his family expect or force him to seek employment elsewhere?

"Katniss are you okay?" asks Prim, her voice soft and a touch concerned.

"Yeah…" I answer absent-mindedly.

"Please don't be upset," she says. "It's a really nice thing for Peeta to do. It would be such a shame of you couldn't enjoy it."

I manage a small smile and turn to look at her.

"Don't worry. I'll be sure to treat his gift with the reverence it deserves." Mustering some fake gusto I put on a much more cheerful and carefree tone. "So what kind of bread did he give us?"

"He gave  _you_ …" Prim begins, unwrapping the cloth to see what's underneath, "what looks like raisin and nut bread."

I close my eyes for a second, taking it all in. I then look in the direction where Peeta went. It had to be that kind of bread, didn't it? I try to hold on to Prim's words and be happy about it, to make this kind gift from Peeta matter, but all I seem to be able to feel is sadness. All those years ago our relationship began when he threw those loaves of bread to me. Now he's giving me that same kind of bread and I can't help but wonder if he means for it to be a bookend.

With a heavy heart I try to accept the thought that Peeta meant this to be his way of saying goodbye.

* * *

That evening I sit by the kitchen table, looking out the window at the sun that has slowly begun its descent. I hope it will be a wonderful sunset. Peeta should have that on his graduation day. This day actually means something to him. I hope he's having fun at whatever party he's attending. Before me on the table is an envelope with my final grades – about as good as I had hoped, better in a few subjects – and with an assessment of my performance in the project. I haven't read it yet. I'm not sure what I'm saving it for, but I don't feel it's the right time yet. Along with the assessment from my teachers, I was given a copy of Peeta's evaluation of me. I haven't read that yet, either. Me getting a copy of his evaluation means that he got a copy of mine. Has  _he_  read it yet? What does he think?

My sister is busy clearing the table, having just vehemently refused to allow me to help in any way at all. She doesn't have the monetary means to give me any material gifts, so she's been keeping me away from any form of chore the whole day through. It's just the two of us in the kitchen. Mother has gone to lie down, more preoccupied with my father not being here for my graduation day than with paying much attention to her graduating daughter. She held it together well enough until the Hawthorne family left but after that she quickly withdrew into her own world. It hurts, and I resent her for it, but at least she held it together while we had company, so I didn't have to feel ashamed in front of Gale's family. I suppose that's all the present I will get from my mother.

"I can't believe I have to wait another four years until it's my turn," sighs Prim, filling the sink with tepid water to do the dishes.

"Those four years will go by all too fast, little duck."

"Katniss I know this day isn't all that special to you, but you do have a bright future ahead of you." I draw my eyes from the sun and look at her instead. I get the odd feeling that whatever she is about to say is something our mother ought to have told me but because she is the way she is it's up to my baby sister to do it instead. It's impossible not to be grateful that I have a sister like that, and also a touch amazed that she's grown up so much. Despite my misgivings of some of her new interests and attitudes there are some aspects of her maturing into a young woman that I like, that make me proud. "You're smart and you're not afraid of hard work," she continues. "You got good grades. Our mother was born in town and that can still work in your favour if you want a job at a shop." Her smile turns into more of a smirk. "And you have Gale. Whatever the future holds for the two of you, you know you'll always have a handsome, capable man who loves you and who is there for you. No matter what."

"Yeah," I say with a nod, happy that she didn't mention the words 'marriage' or 'toasting'. "You're right, little duck. Thank you."

She smiles warmly at me.

"I love you, sis."

"I love you too, Prim."

A knock on the door interrupts our moment. Prim turns to go answer it, but I stand up and shake my head at her. She may want to take on all my chores for the day but she's already doing the dishes and answering the door isn't exactly a  _chore_. I walk up to her and kiss her forehead, then I walk to the front door. It doesn't surprise me that Gale is standing there, having had time to change out of his mining overalls but still with a few specks of dirt on his face. He must have come over as soon as he could.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey Catnip." He leans in and kisses me thoroughly. It's not the kind of kiss I consider a proper greeting but what point would there be bringing that up? "Congratulations on having graduated," he says when he pulls back.

"Thank you," I answer, slightly short of breath after the kiss. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Are you having a celebration with Prim and your mother or… can a guy take you on a romantic walk in the sunset?"

I hesitate. I think of my sister and the nice moment we just had. I was planning for us to make ourselves comfortable on the couch and share the bread and have a nice evening of sisterly talk and card games and whatever we feel like doing. At the same time I would like to spend some time with Gale. I suppose I could go for a walk with him and be back in an hour and have that evening with Prim.

"Just… Just give me a moment, okay?"

He waits at the door while I go inside the kitchen and tell Prim about my plans. She lights up at first but then looks contemplative.

"I think it sounds wonderful to hang out tonight, just the two of us… But I understand if you want to spend the evening with Gale."

"I can easily do both."

"Katniss…" She smiles again. "I'm your sister and I'll be here tomorrow evening, and we can do our thing then. Gale is your boyfriend. Your future. It's okay if you don't want to rush things with him tonight."

I'm not sure what to say to that so I go with what seems to be like the most rational argument.

"The bread might be stale by tomorrow. It would be such a shame to let it go to waste. And the only one I want to share that bread with is you. The person Peeta gave it to in the first place." I pull her in for a quick hug. "I'm going for a walk with Gale and I'll be back in about an hour. Okay?"

She looks sceptical but smiles anyway.

"Have fun."

Gale is holding his hand out to me when I come back to the door. Hand in hand we slowly pass by the streets of the Seam, approaching the Meadow. It's a lovely night out, perfect for this kind of outing. Gale is strangely quiet. I had expected him to ask me questions about my day but given how well he knows me he probably doesn't think I'd have all that much to say. We reach our destination and I stop to take a seat, but Gale has different plans.

"Let's go to the glade. It's our true spot anyway, right?"

"Oh. Okay." He begins to walk. Following a step behind him I bite my bottom lip, letting it slowly slide out of my teeth's grip. "I can't stay all that long, though. I promised Prim. We have sister plans for the evening."

"Sister plans?"

"You know…" I say with a shrug. "In a way, me graduating marks the biggest change for her and me. I won't be there with her at school every day anymore. We're starting to live different lives." Hearing myself say the words depresses me a little. "It feels important somehow to be with her tonight."

"I won't keep you, Catnip," says Gale lightly, looking at me over his shoulder. "Though who knows, maybe we'll lose all track of time?"

I scowl when he turns his face forward again, not liking the implication that I would be that blasé about a promise I made to my sister. I follow him past the fence, through the woods and down the path to our glade. The sunset has begun for real and it's a spectacular view from out here. While I take my seat on the log I wonder what the setting sun looks like when reflected on the clear water of the lake by the old cabin. I decide to find out the answer before summer is over. I take a moment to close my eyes and draw a deep breath, enjoying all the scents that fill a forest glade in early summer. Fresh flowers, fresh green, enhanced by the humidity that is beginning to creep in. Opening my eyes again I smile, deciding that this might be my favourite moment of my graduation day.

I feel Gale put his hand on mine. I wait for him to speak but first it seems he wants to do something else with his mouth. His other hand comes to cradle the back of my head, turning me to face him, and we spend the next few minutes kissing. It's gentle and unrushed and sweet. Gale clears his throat when we're done and gives me a lopsided smile.

"I could do that all day," he tells me.

I smile faintly. I can't say that I feel the same way about it, but I don't mind it either. It's probably best not to say anything.

"It's a lovely night out," I offer, feeling I should say  _something_.

I'm a little startled when he leans in for another kiss, this time a demanding one. I frown and find myself wanting to pull back, not liking the way he seems to be wanting to claim my mouth and almost  _quell_  me. The kiss ends abruptly, and I resist the urge to touch my lips with my fingers, my mouth feeling almost bruised by the sudden assault. Was that supposed to be enjoyable?

"What's gotten into you?" I ask, giving him a look.

"A guy can't give his best girl a passionate kiss on the eve of her adulthood?"

"Huh?"

"You're finally becoming an adult, Catnip," he smiles. "You've turned eighteen, just the one last reaping left to go and today you graduated from school."

"You make that one last reaping sound like a minor thing," I point out, pulling my hand away from his. "You and I both know it's anything but."

"True enough… But you're still becoming an adult." He smiles warmly. "No more school for you, miss Everdeen. Any thoughts to what you will do with your adulthood?"

"Can we  _please_  not discuss this right now?" I sigh, turning my eyes from him to gaze at the setting sun instead. "Haven't we gone over this enough times before?"

"We have, but…" His hand finds mine again, this time intertwining our fingers. I move my eyes from the beautiful scene in the sky and meet his darkening grey eyes. "Back then it was all about theory. Now we're standing in the face of reality." His thumb caresses the back of my hand. "I know you don't want to go down into the mines," he says, and I swallow hard. "I don't want you there either. I don't want to subject  _anyone_  to that life, least of all the woman I love."

"Gale…"

"You have a few months to find another job," he continues. "While you could certainly make a living out here in the woods they would never let you. You're an adult now and you have to provide for the household in a way they can measure on the books. That's just how it works."

"Yeah, thanks for the reminder," I say sullenly, again turning to look at the setting sun. I wish he would just be quiet, just let us sit here and enjoy the moment. Why must there be so much talking?

"But if you can't find a job… Well, there is another option."

The words sink in slowly, one by one. I begin to scowl, the beauty of the sunset suddenly seeming to diminish. I turn to look at him again, seeing the expectation in his eyes, and I feel nothing but dread.

"I just turned eighteen," I point out. "Not nineteen. I won't be a legal adult for almost a year."

"True, but that doesn't mean we can't start making plans."

"You're talking about marriage," I surmise.

"Yeah, Catnip, I'm talking about marriage," he chuckles.

I bite my bottom lip, anger beginning to well up inside.

"You know I don't want marriage."

"Are you really so sure about that?"

I snort, giving him a look. I don't know if I'm more surprised, angry or offended.

"How can you even ask me that? I cannot keep having this conversation with you, Gale," I say sternly. "How many times have we been over this? Yes I'm sure, I've always  _been_  sure, and I always _will_  be sure."

"I don't think you've really thought it through," he begins, holding up both hands to pause me when I'm about to give a very angry response. "Hear me out, okay? What I mean is I don't think you've given the idea an honest chance."

Groaning loudly I get up on my feet, suddenly full of anger and frustration that things have come to this. I miss the good old days when things were uncomplicated between us. Ever since we started dating it seems that every time we're together and every conversation we have things are all focused on our relationship. I brace my hand against the coarse bark of a tree, trying to let the familiar surroundings calm me. I don't want to have a fight. I may not put much stock in the importance of finishing school, but it is nonetheless my graduation day, a day that's supposed to be some form of landmark event, and I wanted to have a nice and peaceful evening.

I turn and look at Gale, his grey eyes looking calmly back at me.

"Nothing has changed," I say. "Nothing at all. I still don't want children and I never  _will_  want children. Not unless the whole world drastically changes and there is no more poverty and no more Hunger Games and no more coalmining. Since I don't want children I also obviously don't want to get married. The only kind of marriage I could ever consider is an entirely platonic one, and what would be the point of that?"

He rises and takes a few steps closer, wisely keeping a bit of distance between us. The light of the setting sun catches in his hair. He still has dirt smudges on his face. His familiar grey eyes capture mine. It's odd. I've seen his face a million times, several times admiring his handsomeness, for years now feeling completely familiar with his features. Why does it seem like he's become more of a stranger with each passing month of our relationship?

"Be realistic, Catnip," he says, still sounding oddly calm. "Picture yourself… five years from now. Or ten. Prim married, living in her own home with her own family. Your relationship with your mother no doubt as strained as it is today. You an adult in every way, wanting your own space. You and I closer than ever, wanting to spend all our time together. Can you picture it?"

"Sort of," I admit, wrapping my arms around myself. The evening is temperate and the soft wind that blows doesn't make me cold, but I still find myself wishing I had something to wrap around me.

"Do you really believe you will  _want_  to be living with your mother at that point? You and me struggling to find places where we can be alone? I don't know about you, but I can't see us spending half our nights under my mother's roof and the other half under  _your_  mother's roof."

I can't stop my cheeks from burning red and I avert my eyes. Gale has been dropping hints that he wants to spend a night with me, but I've pretended not to understand what he's getting at. At this point I believe he only wants to sleep beside me and know what it's like to wake up together but I'm not so innocent and naïve that I don't understand what he's now referring to.

"Well I know one thing for absolute certain," I say. "We won't be spending our nights together. Not the way you mean. I really mean it when I say I'm never having kids and I don't think biology gives too much of a damn if we're married or not. Nothing that intimate is ever going to happen between us."

"I can't see how that could work," he says. "We won't be able to resist."

I picture myself standing with Gale among the other parents at Reaping Day, hearing the name of our child called by Effie Trinket. I see an olive skinned, dark haired child walk up towards the stage and certain doom and I feel nauseous.

"I wouldn't have any problems resisting," I say with so much emotion behind it that he seems to hesitate for a second.

"There are methods of birth control," he then says.

"I don't know how you can justify wasting money on  _condoms_  when we both have families to feed."

"Look, Katniss, I get that you're not ready to have sex," he says, sounding a touch exasperated. "That's fine. I don't want to push you into anything you're not ready for. But you're naïve if you think you'll never become ready and you're even more naïve if you think we would be able to abstain for our  _entire lives_. But even if we could, there's more than that. We are still at the early stages but what we have will grow and deepen and evolve and there will come a time when spending an hour or two together in the afternoon and a day a week hunting won't be enough." He pauses. "In fact, it's not nearly enough now."

"So you think we should get  _married_  as soon as I'm a legal adult?" I question. "That's your solution?"

"It's going to happen anyway at some point."

"No it  _isn't_!" He looks taken aback by my sharp cry, but I don't care. I'm fed up and frankly a bit sad and disappointed that the evening took this turn. We're at our favourite spot in the woods, it's a lovely summer's evening and we should be having a wonderful time together. All I want to do is sit on the log beside him, rest my head on his shoulder and talk about all the things we used to talk about. I don't want to talk about this anymore. "Gale get it through your thick skull. I'm not ever going to marry you. I told you that before we even started going out."

He walks up to me and his big hands land on my shoulders. His eyes stare so intensely at me that I almost recoil, even though there's no anger there. If anything he seems to be searching for something and on an instinctive level I know he's not going to find it. The realization almost breaks my heart.

"Please," he says, his voice now soft. "I don't want to fight."

"Nor do I!" I exclaim. "You're the one who keeps pulling on this thread!"

"I just wanted for us to have a lovely evening together. I want us to have a great  _future_  together."

I hesitate, afraid of what might happen when I speak but knowing that it has to be said. He deserves to hear it. I've been trying to figure out the right thing to do, trying to realize what my feelings truly are, and right here, right now it all becomes so clear.

"A future with me is not going to have a toasting and a baby," I say, my voice softening somewhat. "Maybe I'm not what you really want. I don't think I can  _give_  you the things that you want."

"You can," he says gently, his hand finding my cheek in a gentle caress. "You can. We just need to figure it all out."

"How?" I ask. I want him to be right, I want everything to turn out okay for us, but it has become clearer and clearer to me that we want very different things. It's almost impossible to imagine because we've been such a perfect team with such similar goals for all these years, but it seems this is yet another thing that adulthood ruins.

His other hand leaves my shoulder and cradles my face. He looks at me for almost a full minute and then kisses me. I try to let the kiss wipe away my concerns but unfortunately things aren't that simple. Out of nowhere the thought comes into my head that lately the one boy I've felt completely comfortable with is not my boyfriend but Peeta, the boy who's not even my classmate anymore as of today. Shame washes over me as I catch myself wondering what it would feel like to kiss  _him_  and if I'd be more at ease in that situation than I am here and now with my best friend and boyfriend.

"Where are you, Catnip?" asks Gale in a whisper, breaking the kiss and pressing his brow to mine, his eyes closed. "You seem a million miles away when I kiss you…"

"I'm just a bit worked up from our fight," I mumble.

He sighs lightly and pulls back, opening his eyes again.

"No, it's not just here and now. It's like you're always just a step out of my reach. I feel  _everything_  when I kiss you except… except for you really being there." He swallows. "I know you started out new at all of this, but I thought that by now…"

That's the essence of the problem, isn't it? Gale has far too much faith that I will  _come around_  and that I  _just need time_. Not all things can be fixed with time.

"Gale…" I say, reaching up to take his hands in mine and carefully pull them down from my face. "I've tried to be honest with you this whole time. I'm not so sure how I feel. I love you, but I don't know for sure if I'm  _in_  love with you."

He takes a step back, looking at me like I've slapped him in the face. I feel all at once both a touch of dread and annoyance. When we began going out I made it clear that I'm not yet in love and I've never claimed to have fallen during the time we've been together.

"So what the hell does that mean?" he asks, his voice cold. The sun has finally set, and I can't see him very well in the shadows, but I can read his body language well enough. He's on edge now.

"It means… it's not so strange that I don't feel as much as you feel when we kiss because I…"

I trail off, realizing that I'm only hurting him through my honesty. He looks away, turning his eyes upward for a moment, and then looks at me again.

"So I haven't just been paranoid, then?"

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes when we kiss you seem so distant that I've lately been wondering if I'm even the guy on your mind."

I scowl, instinctively wanting to object and feel offended but deep down knowing that I would be dishonest in doing so. Wasn't I thinking about Peeta just now? I wasn't imagining that it was him kissing me, but Gale probably won't care about that detail.

"What exactly are you accusing me of?" I ask, not sure why I'm even asking the question.

"You're awfully chummy with your former project partner." I'm glad the evening darkness shields the blush that spreads across my cheeks. Of course he would be talking about Peeta. What other boy could I possibly think of? What other boy do I even speak to on a regular basis, other than peacekeepers? "He's got such a thing for you and  _don't_ tell me I'm wrong or that you haven't noticed. A person who's both blind and deaf can pick up on it."

"Jesus, Gale, how paranoid can you be?" I ask with exasperation.

"Do you deny that you're awfully friendly with him?"

" _Friendly_ " I emphasise. "We got along while we were doing the project but that's done now. We graduated today, remember?"

"But you didn't stop spending time with him after the project ended. I have brothers who are still in school, you know, and they've told me that they've seen you two together."

"Oh my God, you have Vick and Rory  _spying_  on me?" I burst out.

"No! But when they see my girlfriend being all congenial with another man they  _tell me_. And I'm tired of answering their questions about why you are acting the way you are around him. The way you have been acting all winter, and for the entire school to see, at that."

"Oh, you mean all the sex I've been having with him in the cafeteria, in front of as many people as possible," I say, my voice brimming with sarcasm – and hurt. "Because let me tell you, if there's one thing you can count upon being conducted in public it's illicit stuff. You might believe that any interactions I have with people where anyone can see are things that are perfectly decent, but wow, you would be wrong."

"Oh come off it, Katniss!"

" _You_  come off it!"

"My brothers have seen you in the assembly room with him every week, and no, obviously you weren't making out with him, and I would never accuse you of that. But don't think I don't pick up on the little details. Details that mean more than you might think to someone who knows you better than you know yourself." A grim look comes over his face, his jaw clenching in a way I usually only see when he's about to go on a rant against the Capitol. "Vick said you were almost always smiling when you talked to him. He said he made you laugh."

Fresh anger flares up inside of me.

"Oh, so I'm not allowed to  _laugh_?"

He gives me a pointed look.

"You  _never_  laugh. You only ever smile out here in the woods." I realize the truth to his words, but the implications seem too big to understand just now. "You certainly never do when you're alone with me."

"I wasn't  _alone_  with Peeta in the assembly room," I mutter, in lieu of a better response. "And he's funny. So what?"

"A lot funnier than I am, evidently."

"Yeah, well seeing as how you only crack a joke once a year…" I sigh heavily, desolately, and stare out into nothing. "Gale, why is it that since we became boyfriend and girlfriend we haven't been able to get along well at all?"

"Are you honestly  _asking_  me that?" he says exasperatedly. He snorts and shakes his head. "I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I've been the perfect boyfriend, or that our difficulties haven't been partially my fault, but you haven't  _tried_ , Katniss. Not really. I feel you made up your mind almost right away that you want me at arm's length, and that you've made little to no effort to making things work between us." He swallows. "And you can say what you want, but Peeta Mellark's appearance on the scene sure seemed to push you farther from me."

"Gale," I complain, pressing three fingers to my brow. I draw a deep breath and decide to drop the subject of Peeta. This is not about him. It's never been about him. As he once said to me, if I want to be with Gale with all my heart then there's nothing Peeta, or any other boy, can do to change that. But if I don't want a future with marriage to Gale and a score of kids, I wouldn't need Peeta or any other boy to keep us from ending up together. "Let's be honest with one another," I say instead. "I do love you. Obviously not the way you need me to, but I  _do_  love you." I tilt my head slightly and look at him unhappily, admitting the truth to myself as I put it into words for him. "But we're not making each other happy. We were far happier as friends than we've ever been as a couple." I gently squeeze his arm, giving him a sad look as I speak to him in soft tones. "Maybe we're just not a good match romantically, or maybe we've rushed into things far too hastily…"

"Rushed into things?" he echoes in disbelief. "Most couples who have been dating for as long as we have, have slept together."

"Is that all that matters to you?" I ask, somehow managing to keep my voice calm. "Sex with me? Even when I'm not ready? Even when I've told you I don't ever intend on having it, for fear of ending up with children?"

"It's not about the sex," he argues. "It's about the reason why you don't want to have it. Which has nothing to do with babies." A sadness comes over his face, and a resignation. As if he too is finally realizing where we stand. "If you wanted me, the way that I want you, then you would be willing to find a way around conception. You haven't even tried to do that."

"No…" I agree after a second. "No. I haven't, have I?"

Silence falls between us, and there's nothing comfortable about it. I take the opportunity in that moment to truly ransack my feelings, once and for all. I want so badly to be in love with Gale, but at the same time it's like I can't help bucking every time there's an opportunity for us to grow closer. I keep longing back to the way things before, not longing for what might be in the future. I'm petrified of losing him as a friend, but all these past few months have been is that friendship seeming to fall to pieces more and more. Then there's Peeta. There's a reason his name keeps coming up all the time, and there's no denying he matters to me. Do I want to date  _him_? I'm not sure. I'm not sure I want to date anyone at all, if I am to be completely honest with myself. But if that is to happen, that I'm nobody's girlfriend anymore, then I will lose Gale. And that thought frightens me very much. Have I put us in the position of our friendship being ruined because I said yes to dating? I agreed to it because I hoped I would come to reciprocate his feelings, and if that had happened then I would have won so much, provided I had found the courage to commit. As things stand, all I seem to be doing is losing.

"Come," says Gale finally, walking over to the log again with a sigh. "Sit with me. And let's not leave this glade until we've figured out where we stand, once and for all. We can't keep going at it like this."

Nodding in agreement I walk up and sit down beside him, trembling from fright and uncomfortableness. But it's time to grab the bull by its horns and figure all of this out. Tonight we won't be able to go our separate ways without knowing exactly where we stand.

* * *

I open the front door carefully and move inside the house, closing the door quietly behind me. I'm not sure why. It's later than I anticipated but not so late that Prim will have gone to bed, particularly not when she's waiting for me. I can't seem to figure out if I want to see her right now or if I don't want to see anybody. My mind and my heart are confused by what happened out at the glade and I feel strangely indifferent to it. Moving through the house I know I have to pass through the sitting room in order to reach the bedroom and I can hear the sounds from the television, implying that Prim is on the couch watching something. I won't be able to sneak past her. Indeed I only get a few steps into the room before she turns her head and sees me.

Her face falls, then morphs into a look of concern. I wonder what my own face must look like, that she can read so plainly that something has happened.

"Oh Katniss…" she breathes. "What is it? What's wrong?"

With that, the indifference goes away, and I start to cry, my face scrunching up, my mouth twisting into a grimace. I look away and warp my arms around myself, opening my mouth to answer her but unable to produce anything but a trembling, sobbing exhale. Prim leaps to her feet, turns the television off and hurries up to me, her arms wrapping around me. I wrap my arms around her in return, gladly accepting the comfort she's offering me. I cry into her hair, feeling so full of disappointment and worry and grief. This, on the day when I was supposed to be celebrating and having a good time.

"What happened?" asks Prim in a whisper, her hand rubbing my back.

I'm able to pull myself together enough to give an answer without blubbering.

"Gale. We broke up."

"Oh, sis…"

She pulls away from the embrace and takes me by the hand, leading me into the bedroom. Buttercup is having a rest on the middle of the bed and for once she shoos him away, making sure I have ample room to sit. I crawl up on the bed and lean my back against the wall, taking the pillow Prim offers me and hugging it, my chin resting on top of it. Prim sits beside me, closer to the edge of the bed, her hand stroking my leg in a comforting manner. Her eyes are glued to me and full of concern and sympathy. It occurs to me that my fourteen-year-old sister probably has more experience with these situations than I do, having no doubt been there for friends who've dumped or been dumped this past year.

"What happened?" she asks again, now that I'm calmer. "I mean, I would have thought… You guys just seemed so…"

"We want different things," I say with a sigh, although it's far too simplified an explanation. A strange new thought occurs to me and brings a scowl on my face. "For such a long time I've thought of Gale and me as birds of a feather, and in many ways I think we are. But maybe that's the problem. It's hard to compromise with someone so much like you when it comes to things we  _don't_  agree on." I scoff. "For one, neither one of us likes to budge an inch."

"It doesn't have to make it hard to compromise," says Prim carefully. "I don't think that's your problem with Gale, Katniss. If two people love each other they'll find ways, they'll make concessions. If anything I think the more alike you are the  _easier_  compromise should be."

I give her a long look, almost feeling the urge to smile despite my sadness.

"When did my baby sister become so wise?"

She looks bashful and tugs at the ends of her hair with the hand that's not resting on my leg. Then her eyes light up.

"You know what? I just got a great idea!" She gets off the bed and moves for the door. "You just stay here, and I'll be right back. Baby sister's wise heartache cure!"

I force a smile, immediately letting it vanish from my face when she's out of sight. I lean my head back against the wall and sigh heavily, a few stray tears falling down my face. I don't know what to do now. I've lost Gale. There's no other way to put it. This is exactly what I was afraid of this whole time and it actually feels even worse than I had anticipated. I was never fully relaxed during our period of dating, always waiting for a bad ending I guess, but there were definitely things I liked about us being together. I liked the idea of loving him. I liked the feeling of being part of a different kind of partnership. And even though I didn't feel sparks when we touched and kissed the sensations themselves weren't unpleasant. It was a kind of physical contact I hadn't experienced before, and I liked it, both the feeling of togetherness it brought and how validated I felt having a nice, handsome boy wanting to kiss me and touch me. All those things were new elements between Gale and me and now they are gone, just like our friendship. Just like our hunting together. Just like the trust we've built over the years.

I hear a creak as Prim gives the door a push and I open my eyes, seeing her walk inside the room with a small tray in her hands. She's got two mugs with what looks to be steaming hot tea and she's got Peeta's bread. I'm not in the mood for either, but she looks so pleased with herself that I fake another smile and tell her that it was a great idea.

"Just like we said we'd do when you got back home," she says, climbing up on the bed beside me.

"Right," I nod, forcing a smile. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer for a moment, revelling in her presence. I love these moments, the ones when she's still my sweet, innocent kid sister, still a child. While I don't expect Prim's personality to change as she grows into adulthood I know some things will be left behind and new traits will come to light. I will cherish and hold on to the little girl in her for as long as it still remains.

"So are you terribly heartbroken?" asks Prim after a few minutes, sounding concerned.

"Well that's the thing…" With a sigh I brush a loose strand of hair away from my face. "I'm not, really. Not in the sense that I… Prim, I was really hoping I could fall in love with him. That we could be that perfect match everyone seems to think we are. That I could save our friendship from deteriorating by upgrading it to a romance." I shrug unhappily. "But I couldn't. I've spent months now trying to tell myself that I don't know for sure how I feel about him yet but looking back I think I knew deep down all along. I love him, as a friend, but I'm never going to be in love with him. My heart doesn't flutter at the thought of him, his presence doesn't take my breath away, I've never longed for him to kiss me. I don't long to see him in that counting-the-minutes sort of way you're supposed to when you feel that way about someone. In the end…" I draw a shaky breath and shake my head briefly, forcing a smile. "But my heart is broken. I've lost him, Prim. I've lost my best friend, and what is worse, I really hurt his feelings."

"Gale's a smart man," argues Prim, her soft hand resting reassuringly on mine. "He will understand. He just needs some time."

"No." I shake my head. "You should have heard the things he said to me at the end…"

"Things he said in the heat of the moment."

"No," I repeat, again shaking my head. "No, Prim, he meant it. Every last word. That I lead him on. That I made him think he stood a chance, when deep down I knew that I could never love him that way." My voice drops to a whisper. "That I used him."

"But you just said that you very much wanted to fall in love with him," maintains Prim. "Even if he meant what he said, that doesn't mean he's right."

I'm crying again now, but through my tears I find myself laughing a little.

"You really are my wise little sister." I wipe away some of the tears, set my slice of bread down on the tray and wrap my arms around her. "Thank you, Prim. For being the best little sister anyone could ever have."

" _You're_  the best sister," she answers, hugging me back, her half-eaten piece of bread still in one hand. "And don't worry, Katniss. This, too, will pass. If Gale is truly your friend, he will forgive you. You will work things out."

I pull back and wipe away more tears, sniffing before I speak.

"Sadly, that's not really true. Once you bring romantic love into the equation, once hearts are broken… I don't know if there is any coming back from that. But I have only myself to blame if I've lost Gale forever."

* * *

A week goes by, the strangest one I've ever known. There's no school anymore, ever. There's no Gale in my life anymore. Ever? While my heart may not be broken in the romantic sense of the word, I walk around mourning the friendship that I destroyed and feeling devastated that I hurt Gale to the extent that I did. He told me to stay away from him for a while, never specifying for how long. I have no other choice but to comply. The house seems so eerily quiet with Prim not at home – seniors graduate in early June, everyone else still goes to school until the month of July. There's only me and my mother at home during the days, and I refuse to talk to her about what has happened.

But before I have time to think, or feel, too much, the annual Reaping rolls around. The 76th one, my very last no matter how things turn out. And a day or two after the break-up I'm not even sure which part of the anguished coil in my belly has to do with losing Gale, and which part has to do with the dreaded day when I will stand there and for the last time hope in desperation that my name won't be called.

And so the day finally arrives. A beautiful day in June, and I long and itch to be out in the woods, to go through my usual routines and prepare as best I can. But Gale might be there, and I promised him I would stay away for now. Running into him would only make the burning knot in my stomach ache worse, and I don't want to risk it. So I stay at home, pacing around the house, driving both my mother and my sister crazy with my restlessness. Prim has her own nerves and her own demons to face, and I shouldn't make things worse for her, so eventually I flee outside, taking refuge in Lady's pen. The goat couldn't care less about my presence, but she also couldn't care less about my nerves, so in the end I guess it works out okay. I have to run to the bathroom about five times, but other than that I stay outside until Mother calls me into the house to take a bath and get myself ready.

As always, the area around the Justice building is bustling with people and the mood is sombre and tensed. Prim and I arrive hand in hand, hers squeezing mine so hard that it hurts a little, and I hear myself mumbling words of comfort and encouragement to her as we stand in line to be signed in. Once we've accomplished that step we hug each other tight and go our separate ways, me at the group at the very front and Prim somewhere in the middle.

The ceremony begins. Effie Trinket arrives. My heart is drumming so hard in my chest I can barely hear a word being spoken, and I've been through this so many times by now that I know each line by heart, and so I barely pay attention to a word.

That is, until Effie struts towards the Reaping Balls and utters the magic words.

"As usual – ladies first."

It's true what Gale said. I have not been so nervous for my own sake since my first Reaping. Effie's hand reaches into the Reaping Ball and the usual prayer runs on repeat through my mind.

"Not Prim. Not me. Not Prim. Not me. Not Prim. Not me. Not Prim."

It's neither one of us.

It's Madge Undersee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't recall exactly what kind of bread it was that Peeta threw to Katniss when they were kids. I think it was raising/nut, but I'm not entirely sure, and I haven't had time to do any research. If I got it wrong, please let me know and I will edit the text as soon as I can.
> 
> Katniss and her classmates walking out from the school to find their families waiting on their graduation day is loosely based on what we do in Sweden when we graduate from what's roughly the equivalent of high school. I just used the very basic framework of it because it seemed to fit.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you thought of the chapter.
> 
> Oh, and as a side note - the wrestling tournament, as well as another very short scene have been posted now, under the name "Side Project". In all likelihood, more removed scenes will end up there as time goes by.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I defintiely wasn't expecting to have another update ready by now! The other day I ended up stuck on a train that stood still for over two hours, and with no on-train wifi, no cell-phone reception and having finished my book earlier that morning, I didn't really have anything else to do, so I wrote the next chapter. I guess we can thank the Swedish railroads' inability to deal with winter for this update =). I'm still working on comment replies, hopefully you can forgive me on that score.

I'm still reeling from the shock of hearing Madge's name being called, trying to comprehend that it is really my one female friend standing up there on stage with her petrified father behind her, when Effie walks over to the second Reaping Ball. Instead of feeling like the worst is over I'm almost sick to my stomach thinking that things might turn even worse. There's still a friend of mine in the crowd, one with his name on slips in that Reaping Ball, who might end up called up to stage as well. Could the universe be that cruel? Cruel enough to make me watch two of the only friends I've ever had face each other in the arena? And as if that wasn't bad enough, then there's Rory Hawthorne – and Vic, who has his name on one of the slips for the first time. No matter what has happened, or will happen, between Gale and myself, those boys are dear to me. I couldn't bear it if one of them had to go into the arena with Madge.

I'm not the only one who's currently stunned by the events of the past few minutes. When Madge's name was called the whole district seemed to go silent at once. It was a stunning experience in itself – hundreds of people around me, thousands of people in the streets nearby, all falling silent at once. Thousands of people who suddenly stopped shifting their stance, stopped mumbling to each other, stopped coughing and swallowing and clearing their throats, stopped moving their joints, stopped, just altogether stopped. Even the small children fell silent and stopped moving, not because they necessarily understood what was going on, but because every adult around them reacted this way. Everyone knows who Madge Undersee is. And everyone felt one hundred percent sure that she would never be participating in the Hunger Games. If anyone had been foolish enough to bet on her name being called by Effie, that person will walk away with a large amount of money. For a couple of seconds, seconds longer than eternity, everything was just dead silent. And then a wail, a loud, piercing sound of agony. Madge's mother. I closed my eyes hard and wished she would just shut the hell up, not just because the sound itself was unbearable to listen to, but because it damages Madge's chances. In all my years of life I have never heard a cry like that when a person has been reaped, and I fear I will never be able to stop hearing it.

When I opened my eyes again someone had reached Mrs. Undersee and quieted her somewhat, muffling her cries against, presumably, a sympathetic chest. Meanwhile I couldn't see Madge in the crowd, even though I knew she was somewhere near me, so instead I looked to the large screens flanking the estrade where the tributes will be standing for the district to get a good view of. At the sight of her my heart filled with pride and a sliver of hope. Despite her mother's wailing Madge appeared to be absolutely calm and collected, her fair face stoic as she filled her lungs with air and then began to move, the crowd parting around her to make way. She passed by with only one line of girls between us, and I reached out my hand and grazed her hair, knowing that the reason why she didn't spare me as much as a look was to not betray the act she had already begun to play for the cameras.

Now she's standing up there on the stage, her mother's wailings having turned into muffled sobs somewhere in the crowd and her father looking absolutely broken where he sits behind her. Haymitch Abernathy seems to have sobered up somehow, his eyes sharp and attentive. Typical. He never gives a damn when its some poor Seam kid up there on stage, but when the mayor's daughter is reaped he springs to attention. Effie Trinket is absolutely riveted by this turn of events, grinning like she's just won the best prize in all of Panem, and I hate her. Her excitement was palpable when she briefly interviewed Madge, in fact it looked like it was the happiest moment of her pathetic life. Now her thin, nimble fingers, garnished by nails painted like rainbows, reaches inside the Reaping Ball and closes around one of the slips.

I close my eyes hard, dig my nails into the palms of my hands and without reflecting on why I repeat another prayer to myself like a mantra.

"Please don't let it be him, please not him, please not him."

"Eric Riven," announces Effie.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and open my eyes again, my shoulders slouching a little as I relax them. I don't know who Eric Riven is. Somebody younger. Somebody I have no connection to. It's a relief, even though it's clear to see that the boy is no older than fourteen and hasn't had a decent meal in months. His odds of survival are minuscule and the decent thing to feel in this moment is horror that such a young, poverty-stricken boy should be facing death this way, but the reality is that everyone here who doesn't know Eric Riven but knows some other boy whose name was in those Reaping Balls is feeling relief right now. It has to be somebody but at least it's not someone dear to me. It's a horrible way of thinking but it's a necessary one. Nobody could function if they felt as badly when a stranger gets reaped as if it had been a loved one.

As the boy walks up to the stage I look at Madge and find her looking back at me. I wonder if she noticed my reaction just now. Not that it matters if she did. All that's important right now is that she begins to prepare herself for what she will inevitably face. I have never been inside the Justice Building to say goodbye to a tribute but today I know I have to go. I have to see Madge before she's taken away and I have to give her whatever advice or support I can.

I try to read the look on her face. There's a calm acceptance there, either from shock or from some underlying strength I never perceived in her before. I can't bring myself to look at the mayor, her father, who has to stand up there on the stage and keep the show running. No doubt the Capitol audience is loving every second of this. Just like they always love it when a victor's child gets drawn. The sound of Madge's mother wordlessly moaning in pain and horror still fills the air despite several minutes having passed by since her daughter's name was called. I wish she would be quiet, wish I could snap at her to shut up, because she is damaging Madge more than helping her and she ought to know that. Her whimpers undo the strength her daughter is projecting. Eric Riven's mother isn't wailing, and his odds are decidedly worse.

"Isn't this a thrilling year?" chirps Effie. "I think we can all agree this Reaping has been a lot more exciting than usual. I just can't wait for the Games to start; don't you feel the same way? Oh, Mayor Undersee, this must be such a proud moment for you!"

I feel sick and have to avert my eyes. I stare down at the ground for as long as I dare to. Looking away for too long can get you into trouble if somebody pays notice. As Effie babbles on I lift my eyes and look at Eric, who is shaking with barely controlled sobs, his fists repeatedly clenching and unclenching. He knows he's dead. Any other year each District 12 tribute has at least been able to cling to some vain hope that maybe, just maybe, they might make it out. But everyone knows that if one of our tributes wins this year it's going to be Madge. She is older and a lot more likely to draw in help from sponsors thanks to her status as the mayor's daughter. When Effie said this was an exciting year she meant because of her, not the boy. Eric is likely to be no more than an afterthought, someone people expect to die at the initial cornucopia bloodbath. No one will care much what happens to him.

And I can't deny that I'm a little bit relieved. Only one of them can come back – and even that is highly unlikely. If District 12 is to finally have another victor I want it to be my friend.

* * *

I go to the Meadow.

It's the only place I can think of to go. Right now it's secluded and calm and allows me some time to think.

We were supposed to be safe. This was our final eligible year and while that does mean more slips in the Reaping Balls than any other year it's still so very close to making it out of the Reapings unscathed. Many years have tributes younger than eighteen. In fact it's been three years since it last happened that an eighteen-year-old was reaped in Twelve. Maybe that means it was time for it to happen again. But I still wasn't ready for this.

Not for Madge to be reaped.

The mayor's daughter. A girl with only seven slips in the Reaping Ball, in contrast to my own twenty-eight. It shouldn't be possible, and yet it has happened.

Madge. My only friend now that things have turned sour with Gale. The only female friend I've ever had. I tried my best to encourage her during my brief visit, but the truth is I don't hold her survival for likely and she knows it. By District 12 standards she's pampered and hasn't had to fight for survival already like so many of the rest of us. She's also a very sweet and gentle person. How is she going to be able to make it through the Hunger Games? I can't think of a single victor who never killed anybody. Not even Annie Cresta from District 4, who won her games by managing to stay afloat the longest after the gamemakers flooded the arena. She was a career at the start and killed two tributes at the cornucopia. Madge will never be able to do that. I don't think Madge would be able to kill a butterfly if it came to that. And if she ends up being one of the last two tributes standing, she will almost certainly have to kill the other person in order to claim victory. The gamemakers aren't likely to step in and help her out by arranging for a trap to take her competitor out. They would never want a victor with no blood on her hands.

My arms are wrapped around my legs and I lean forward, resting my cheek on my knees. I feel like I want to cry but no tears are coming. The worst part is that I can't help but feel a tiny sliver of relief that it's not me, it's not Prim. And it will never be me. I don't want to reflect on what that says about me. Right now I feel so helpless, knowing that there is nothing I can do to help Madge. I can't even send her any sponsor money. Her family will probably be able to provide some of that for her but even the mayor isn't rich in District 12. The only thing I can do is accept the fact that one of the only real friends I have ever had is going to die, only guaranteed one more week in life. After that it can all be over at any time. The Games have been sickening to me every year, but this year is far worse than ever before.

I don't know how long I've been sitting there when I notice the sound of footsteps approaching. Quickly I straighten my back and try to arrange my face in a casual expression. I turn my head and I'm surprised to see Peeta walking up to me.

He looks equally surprised to see me. He's got a bag under his arm and has changed out of his reaping clothes, though his hair is still slicked and combed back. After everything that has happened this day he is a sight for sore eyes, even though I'm afraid he's going to ask me questions about how I'm doing and how feel and I'm going to suddenly find those tears easily coming.

"I didn't know you would be here," he says, stopping a few feet away from me. "Do you want me to go?"

I shake my head firmly.

"No. Please. Stay." I clear my throat and try to keep my voice steady, my fingers grazing stands of the grass beneath me. "What are you doing out here?"

"It's... going to sound stupid in light of everything."

"I could use the distraction," I sigh and run a hand through my hair.

"Mind if I sit?"

"I guess not..."

He walks over and sits down, keeping about two feet of distance between us. He sets the bag down by his feet and reaches over to open it.

"Every year I come out here when the cherry trees first start to bloom, and I try to accurately capture how the flowers look."

"They started to bloom three weeks ago."

"Yeah I know, but I haven't had much spare time to go out here." He rests his sketchbook against his thighs and hesitates for a moment. "Thing is, I don't have much paper or that great a supply of colours and good pencils. I don't want to waste any of it on something that doesn't turn out right. It's been years and I still can't capture those flowers properly, but I think I get better at it each year."

"Can I see?" Sketches of cherry blossoms seem so trite in the light of Madge being reaped but somehow it feels nice,  _necessary_  even, to spend a moment thinking about something insignificant.

"It's not ready yet," hesitates Peeta. "Maybe some other time."

I nod slightly. He puts the pad down next to him and then just sits there beside me. The silence is as comfortable as ever between us, but I don't want silence right now. Peeta being here means I can be distracted for a short while, and I need that.

"Why aren't you at home, getting ready for the party?"

He shrugs a shoulder, looking out over the Meadow.

"Didn't feel like it."

"Will your girlfriend be going?"

The corner of his mouth turns upward in a lopsided smile that doesn't look happy in the slightest, but I can't tell if the lack of happiness is related to the question or just due to the events of the day.

"I don't have a girlfriend. I went on a few dates. Nothing more."

"Oh… Sorry I asked."

"No, it's alright," he shrugs. He sighs heavily. "At least I still have the chance to find a girlfriend. To live my life."

I tremble at his words, my heart and my whole body feeling ice cold for a second.

"Did you know Madge well?"

He shoots me a look and with horror I realize that I just spoke of her as if she's already dead. Or at least it must have sounded like it. What I meant is if he knows her well from childhood, since they're both from the town and I should imagine that after the peacekeepers Mayor Undersee is the bakery's finest customer. The family can afford to be. Perhaps I ought to know already if Peeta and Madge are closely acquainted but I can't seem to remember if they are.

"I wish I could tell you she will be fine," he says compassionately.

"Yeah," I mumble, looking away to gather my composure. A light breeze catches a loose strand of my hair and blows it over my eyes. I brush it aside and bite my bottom lip gently, wishing too that Peeta could promise that she'll survive.

"We don't know each other all that well," he then answers my question. "All the same, it's someone our age. Someone I went to school with. Someone I think we all considered as good as safe from the reaping." His face shifts into a look of almost disgust. "Though there was of course one 'lucky fellow who had bet on her being reaped and went home today a fairly affluent man.'" His fingers make the air quotes with so much aggressiveness, and his jaw clenches quite hard, that there's no need to ask how he feels about the betting that goes on every year at the Reapings.

"Goes to show no one is ever safe," I mutter.

"Except us now."

We fall silent again and I can't have that, so I go back to my earlier question.

"So why aren't you going to the party?"

"I'm not in the mood for it. I was looking forward to it earlier but now it just seems... macabre. Celebrating how fourteen other kids died in the years we were eligible, thereby sparing us."

"Twelve," I correct him.

"Thirteen," he retorts. "Only one tribute can make it out, remember? At best it will be thirteen others from Twelve who died so that we could live." He pauses and then looks at me with a kindness in his eyes that I wish he would replace with something much colder. If he's going to be kind and sweet I know I won't be able to keep my emotions under control. And I don't want to fall apart, don't want to cry. Not here. Not in front of him. "So why are you out here, Katniss?"

"Doesn't matter," I mumble. My fingers begin to grip straws of grass, pulling them up and letting them drop again.

"I really am sorry," he then says, in the softest, gentlest tone I think I've ever heard him use. "I know she matters to you."

That does me in. I can't stop the tears that well up in my eyes and when I open my mouth to say something in reply all that comes out is a sob. The next thing I know Peeta is right beside me, though I can't tell you if he moved closer or if I did or if it was the both of us. His arm lands around my shoulder and it feels strong and comforting. I lean in and rest my head on his shoulder, allowing him to console me, letting him be privy to a vulnerability I hate showing anyone, especially people who aren't in my family. I can't take back the tears that have already fallen, nor the sobs that have already left my throat, and despite the dreadful feeling of humiliation that I always feel when someone other than Mother or Prim sees such vulnerability and weakness in me, I feel a kind of relief at not having to fight to hold the tears and the sorrow back. I have to try and keep it in check, but not entirely behind lock and key, and it feels a bit like coming up to the surface and filling your lungs with air after swimming under water for too long.

"I can't believe it's her," I say through my tears.

"I know," he says.

"It's not fair! She had so few slips. She never did anything to hurt anyone. She's warm and kind and gentle. She's  _good_."

"Yes she is."

I cry helplessly against his shoulder, feeling so scared and shocked and alone. If I'm to be honest with myself I already think of Madge as dead. Mayor's daughter or no, her odds are so unfavourable that it's not worth hoping that she might come back home. In fact all she might get from being a mayor's daughter is a big bullseye on her back from tributes who want to take her out as soon as they can. I don't think I can stand watching her die in the Games if I haven't already accepted the inevitability of it. I've been so careful opening my heart to anyone and now one of the few people I've allowed myself to care about is almost certainly going to become yet another dead tribute.

"I don't have any friends now," I sob. As I hear the words spoken I cringe inwardly at how sound self-involved they sound, but that's not how I meant them.

"Yes you do," Peeta objects. "Gale-"

"Gale and I aren't friends anymore."

"I don't think that's true. He'll be there for you. He knows you need him now."

"You don't understand," I blubber. "We can't be friends. He said so. We broke up."

"That doesn't matter. I wouldn't want to stop being friends with you because you couldn't be my girlfriend."

"He's not like you," I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "I hurt his feelings and he thinks I let him down. And he's right."

"That doesn't mean he won't come through for you now. And, if you don't have Gale as a friend you have me," says Peeta. "If you'll have me as a friend."

There's something so innocently sweet about his offer that it makes me cry harder, overwhelmed by the mixed emotions. I feel a strange longing to wrap my arms around him and cry into his chest but that seems way too intimate and I don't want to scare him off or make him uncomfortable. I'm vaguely aware that his hand isn't resting still on my shoulder; it's rubbing me gently in a comforting motion. I'm getting his shirt all wet with my tears, but he doesn't seem to notice. He lets me cry and doesn't say anything for a while, leaving it up to me to decide when I'm ready to talk again.

Once my tears begin to subside I start to become aware of how close I'm actually sitting to him and how we're touching one another. It's perfectly innocent in itself but if someone were to see us they'd probably assume we were more than friends from school. I'm not used to being this close to somebody outside my family and I start to feel strangely aware of his thumb gently brushing my shoulder and the feel of his chest moving beneath his shirt with every breath. I actually don't mind his closeness, in fact it feels quite nice, but all the same this is not somebody I should be sitting this close to.

I pull away and straighten my back, trying as best I can to regain some of the dignity I feel like I lost when I broke down crying. I wipe my cheeks and adjust my slightly wrinkled shirt. Peeta's arm drops from my shoulder and my skin feels cold at the loss of his touch. I don't know why that always happens with him.

Clearing my throat I give him what I hope is a composed and casual look.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I don't know what came over me. I feel so embarrassed."

"You shouldn't," replies Peeta. "There's nothing shameful about grieving someone you care about being reaped."

I quickly have to draw a deep breath and look away to fight back more tears that threaten to come when he says that. I don't trust my voice for the next few seconds, so I busy my hands with the hem of my shirt, studying it as if it is extremely interesting, hoping Peeta will say something else about something that has nothing to do with Madge. Anything that means he's talking and we're moving away from the topic of my friend who will surely be dead within a week or two.

"So... How was it? Saying goodbye to her, I mean."

I look at him with a frown, annoyed that he chose to stay on the subject of Madge and confused as to how he even knew I was there visiting her. What, is he keeping tabs on me now?

"I didn't say I went to see her," I say coldly. Immediately after I snivel, undermining the tone in my voice.

"I know," he says quickly. "I just assumed you did."

"Why?" I shoot back just as quickly.

He holds up his hands in a disarming gesture.

"Because she's your friend and because you're the kind of person who would go see a friend if he or she were reaped." He takes his hands down and stretches his left leg out. "But if you didn't go see her then there's nothing wrong with that. Most people probably wouldn't. I know if I had been reaped it would most likely only have been my family saying goodbye."

"Then why are you so sure I would say goodbye to Madge?" The coldness is gone from my voice and I feel a little bad for having spoken to him like that. He looks at me for a second before he answers my question.

"Because that's just who you are."

It's a compliment, I get that much. I look away from him, focusing my eyes on a random spot in the grass a few feet away. I don't want to talk about Madge or the last meeting I ever will have had with her. Instead I latch on to something else he said.

"You're always surrounded by friends when I see you at school. How come you think they wouldn't have come see you?"

"Maybe some of them might have," he shrugs evasively. "I don't know. It's one thing to be pals and play sports together and sit together at lunch and stuff like that. There aren't a lot of people I have deep, meaningful friendships with." He pauses, furrows his brow, then smiles slightly. "Delly. Delly Cartwright. I think she would have come to see me off; we've been friends since we were little. But that's about it." He leans over and while continuing to speak he puts his sketchpad back into his bag. "To be completely honest I sometimes envy people like you, who have few friends but all the more valuable friendships with those people. It's like I have quantity and others have quality, you know?"

"You mean you think your friends don't really care about you?"

"No I'm sure they do. I care about them, too. It's just... not quite the same."

"I don't understand," I say truthfully.

"I have a lot of fun with my friends but very few of them I actually talk to about, you know, the difficult stuff." He pulls up a few strains of grass with one hand, then immediately wipes his hand on hits pants. "There are definitely some friends I would have gone to see if they had been reaped but many of them I would have felt like I was interfering, you know? If all you have is one more hour to say goodbye to those who matter the most to you then you don't want to squander that hour on that guy you kick a football around with every once in a while or one of the five guys you hang out with at school but rarely on your spare time."

"Madge and I didn't hang out all that much on our spare time," I mutter, feeling strangely guilty about that now that we'll never get the chance to.

"But there is still something deeper between you as friends than there is between me and Timmy Beck, or any of those guys."

"How would you know?" I ask curiously, wrapping my arms around my legs and resting my cheek against my knees, facing him with a new interest.

He doesn't answer for a few seconds, as if mulling it over.

"I don't know," he then says. "Because you went to see her. Because I saw the look on your face when she walked up there."

"You saw the look on my face?"

"Yeah, I..." He pulls up another fistful of grass with a pensive look on his face. "When she got called I looked over at her and then I looked over at you. I've been lucky. No one I know directly has ever been reaped. I don't know how I would feel if that happened. So I guess I looked over at you to see if you were alright."

Except he knows Madge directly, even if he doesn't know her as well as I do. Yet he only looked at her for a moment and then looked at me. To make sure  _I_  was alright. Not Madge, not the girl just essentially sentenced to death, but me.

I feel a sudden shiver run through me and I sit up straighter and rub my arms for a moment. Then I lean back, putting my hands behind me to support my weight on my arms. I don't know what the real meaning is of what Peeta just said. All I know is that strangely it doesn't make me uncomfortable that he was more concerned about me in that moment than about her. In fact it feels nice and comforting. For the first five years when I was in the reaping I had Gale there in the crowds with me, someone whose name might still be drawn but who I knew was relieved when the girl's name was not mine. There was a comfort and strength in that, knowing that I wasn't alone. To think that I had something similar to that today with Peeta makes me feel comforted, no matter how horrible it is that the name called was my only friend's.

No, not my only friend. Peeta just offered to be one. And we were friends of a kind even before today. Our eyes meet and for the first time I feel very strongly that I do want us to be friends, real friends, friends like I've been with Madge and Gale. For months now I've known that I want him around, but I haven't really dared to reach for more than to be acquaintances. But really, what do I have to lose by daring to have him for a real friend? I want the boy with the bread to care about me and to like me. I want him to feel that I was someone worthy of what he did for me all those years ago. I want to play some role in his life in compensation for the enormous role he's played in mine.

"I'm glad I have you as a friend," I tell him, looking steadily into his eyes, and the faintest hint of a smile appears on his face. "Like I said before, I don't have all that many. And the friendships I do have matter a great deal to me."

"I'm really glad we can be friends, too," he says gently. "True friends. Not just in name, but in practice."

I smile slightly and avert my eyes, focusing on his hand that keeps pulling up strains of grass, pausing every now and then to wipe it clean against his pants. The veins on his hands are easy to see from where I'm sitting, almost like they're lying on top of the rest of his tissue, and for some strange reason I feel compelled to reach out a finger and trace one of those veins all the way up his arm. I notice for the first time that he's got almost as much hair on his arms as Gale does, only Peeta's is so blonde you can barely see it. I don't know why all of this catches my interest right now. I imagine that hand kneading dough or painting a cherry blossom. It's strange how his hands seem fit for two such different activities, one requiring a bit of strength and the other requiring much delicacy.

"Katniss?"

I know I'm staring at him but since my eyes are on his hand and not some much less appropriate part of him I don't care. I look up at him and feel a sudden confusion as to where we go from here. I've only been friends with one boy before and that was Gale. We hunted together, that's what we did. That's how our bond formed. While we hunted and fought for survival we talked and grew closer. Peeta and I can't go hunting together. What are we supposed to do as friends?

"I don't play football," I hear myself blurting out.

Peeta looks flabbergasted. My comment was more than a little bit out of the left field and I feel my cheeks turning red while I look away and try to find something else to focus my eyes on.

"Oh, um..." stumbles Peeta, trying his best to find a suitable reply to what I just said. "I... Well, I guess I knew that about you already."

"Sorry," I mutter, still not wanting to meet his eyes. "I'm not very good at this whole friend thing. Or at making conversation."

"No, it's... It's interesting."

"It's just... All I meant was... I don't really know what we would do together, you know? As friends."

He laughs a little.

"We definitely don't have to play football. Unless you want me to teach you how to play." He rocks slightly against me, giving me a nudge with his shoulder. "We could do whatever we want. Whatever comes naturally. That's the beauty of friendship, I think. We just… spend time together doing whatever."

"I don't really get how that works," I mumble, feeling a little stupid. "I mean… What if you can't think of anything to do? Or talk about?"

"I find the best friendships are the ones where things like that don't matter," he says in a pensive tone and his words really hit home.

Madge and I probably spent the majority of our friendship  _not_  talking or doing anything in particular. For that matter Gale and I were silent for long stretches of time out in the woods and could sit in silence together for an hour or more while huddled in a tree, waiting for the electricity to go out again. Does that mean that Madge and I have had a deeper friendship than I've realized? Does that make the loss of Gale even greater? I almost well up with tears again and I bite my lip hard to prevent that from happening but my mind then goes to another implication of what Peeta just said. Peeta Mellark, the boy who always seems to be doing  _something_ , whether it be play sports with his friends or work in the bakery or draw. The boy who always seems to find the right words to say. I guess that's exactly what he did now too because it pleasantly surprises me that he is fine with something like that and it also dawns on me that for the majority of the time we spent working together on the project we didn't talk, and the silences were very comfortable. How could I have forgotten that? It's one of the things I've appreciated about his company right from the beginning.

"How do you know when you get to that stage when you can do that?" I ask, curious to hear what he has to say about it. "What do you do before then? You can't just become good friends with someone by sitting around not talking."

"So far we seem to be doing okay," he says, smiling slightly, and I realize he's right. At least today we haven't had any trouble passing the time in each other's company. And come to think of it, conversation has seemed to come easy for us in the months we've worked together on our school project.

"Yeah I guess…" I say. A cool breeze makes me shiver a little even though it's a warm day but maybe that's just the events of the day taking their toll. That makes me wonder about Madge and the kind of toll the day has taken on  _her_. All at once I feel both guilty for having been sitting here talking casually to Peeta, even with something resembling feeling  _good_  for a moment, so shortly after she was put on the train and taken out of the district, and feeling thankful to him for having distracted me. "Oh God Peeta, can you even imagine what Madge must be going through right now?"

"No," he says, showing no confused reaction to my sudden change of conversational topic. "No I don't think anyone can who hasn't been in that situation."

"And all of those from this district are dead," I say gloomily. "Except Haymitch Abernathy, and he's probably passed out drunk by now."

Peeta nods slowly, then bows his head in a dejected manner. We sit there for a minute in complete silence, the only sounds being that of the early summer breeze sweeping through the Meadow, and a handful of mockingbirds chirping in a nearby tree.

"I'm sorry," Peeta then says. His jaw is firmly set, and he's got a look in his eyes that is somehow both resignation and determination at once. "I wish I knew something to say to make you feel better. I just can't think of anything."

"You don't have to say anything…" I assure him gently. I reach out my hand to touch him but pause the movement before I reach the sleeve of his shirt.

"I would like to, though," he says, his jaw clenching in the pause when he speaks. "But I guess there is nothing  _to_  say. Nothing but… but platitudes and banalities and words that don't mean anything and are of no earthly help to anyone."

His frustrated words surprise me. I had never imagined that he of all people would have such thoughts. Now it's my turn to feel like I should say something, and so I do, not convinced I believe the things I'm saying.

"Perhaps it's as Prim says. That some platitudes became such because there is truth to them. So I guess they're not all bad, even though I agree with you, I don't know if I'd feel any better by someone telling me that after rain comes sunshine and everything will be just fine at the end of the day."

Did that even make sense? I'm not sure. It feels like I contradicted myself. But Peeta smiles crookedly at me and leans back to lie down, stretching his legs out and resting the left calf on top of the right. His hands form a makeshift pillow underneath his head and he looks up at the clouds sailing by above, beginning to speak slowly. While he speaks I lie down beside him, lying on my side facing him, propping myself up on my elbow.

"I don't think that's the case," he says. "No offense to your sister. But I don't think it's an element of truth that makes those kinds of phrases oft-repeated and, well, clichés. I think perhaps we repeat them because we  _want_  them to be true, but deep down we all know it's crap." He snorts, shrugging lightly. "Or at least they seem like crap to me. None seem to hold up to closer inspection. Which is why I'd feel like an asshole if I were to offer them up to you as some form of solace, when I know they are empty and meaningless."

"How do you mean, exactly?" I ask, a form of breathless curiosity coming over me. It's probably just hearing him speak about anything other than Madge and the Hunger Games directly, but I want to know what he's saying, and find myself hanging on his every word. The longer he speaks about something not directly related to the day's events, the longer I can get some respite from it.

"Well…" he begins slowly, his eyes occasionally darting to meet mine while he speaks. "Take the sky, for instance. Those clouds up there… How many times have you heard people say, when trying to comfort someone in a bleak situation, that above the clouds the sky is always blue?"

"Yeah," I nod, well familiar with the phrase – one I myself have always secretly rolled my eyes at.

"That's rather hard to believe when you can't  _see_  that blue sky. Who knows if it's even true? It feels a bit like that thing about whether or not a tree makes any noise if it falls where no one is around to hear it. And how is it supposed to be any help?" He wiggles a little where he lies, trying to get more comfortable. He's probably getting grass stains on his clothes, but he doesn't seem to notice, or mind. "And they say that after rain, the sun comes out again… but that rarely helps those who have gotten soaked."

"I suppose not."

"And I know I'm talkative and all… But sometimes words are no use, and I'd rather say nothing than to regurgitate some pointless cliché that won't help anyone anyway."

Watching him as he talks I think to myself that he doesn't know how much his words do help – even when he's talking the way he is right now. It's helpful to talk about anything that isn't Madge or the Hunger Games or death, tributes, arenas, soulless Capitol people cheering for the events that unfold. It's helpful to talk about anything other than what's going to happen if she doesn't come back home. And it's helpful just to hear his voice – steady, warm, pleasant. I shift to lie on my back, watching the clouds up above, ones that at least right now do seem to have blue skies above them, but which doesn't help me anyway. But surprisingly something  _has_  helped me, if only for a brief, precious moment, and that is my new good friend lying next to me.

We end up lying there for quite some time, until the heat in the air somewhat fades and the breeze could almost pass for being chilly. The sun has moved far across the sky, and it occurs to me that Prim and Mother must be worrying about me. Not too worried, or Prim would have come to see if she could find me here, but I should still probably head back home. And Peeta's family must be wondering where he took off to, unless it's commonplace for him to be out sketching cherry blossoms for hours on end. I almost don't want to go, don't want to leave the small sanctuary that is lying beside this boy in the grass, speaking occasionally but for the most part enjoying the comfortable silence that comes so natural to us. It's with some reluctance that I sit up and brush strands of grass off my clothes.

"It's getting late in the day," I say.

"Yeah," says Peeta, sitting back up. He rises to his feet almost instantly and picks his bag up from the ground. "Time kind of just flew, didn't it?"

"Oh, I completely ruined your drawing!" I exclaim, the penny finally dropping on that score. "Gosh, Peeta, I'm sorry."

"No, don't think about it," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "I can come back tomorrow. Or any other time in the next week or so." He holds out his hand to me and I let him help pull me to my feet. Together we walk towards the road up ahead. "Listen, you know I mean what I said about wanting to be there for you. Do you want to come over in a few days and watch the interviews together? Might be easier to watch it together with a friend. Not, not that your family wouldn't be good company, too, I just thought…"

"I would like to," I tell him, smiling faintly. "But… What about  _your_  family?"

"I'll drug them with sleep syrup," he says, so completely serious in his tone that I burst out laughing, if only for a few seconds. He smiles like he's pleased to see me laugh. "They won't be a problem, I promise you."

"Okay," I nod, after weighing my options in my head for a minute. Watching Madge's interview with Peeta, someone who knew her too, would make it easier to sit through. But watching it with his family? But maybe they will watch upstairs, and Peeta and I in the kitchen, or even in the store, where they are required to keep a television so that their customers can watch the Games as they eat their pastries.

"Okay," he nods as well, a faint smile on his lips.

We stop once we reach the road, and for a long moment we stand there looking at one another, his bag slipping down on the ground with a quiet thud. Suddenly my throat wells up with gratitude. I would tell him what his company and his words today mean to me, if I wasn't afraid I would start to cry again. In lieu of speaking I wrap my arms around him for a hug, letting his closeness comfort and strengthen me, finding solace in his steadiness and warmth. He smells so good, he feels so good. And he hugs me back with such affection, allowing me to stay in his arms for as long as I need to, which turns out to be several minutes. When I finally pull back he's still smiling that faint, warm smile.

"Thank you," I say, so quietly it's barely more than a whisper. That's all I can afford without risking tears. "For everything. Today and… and before."

"You're welcome," he mouths.

He lets me be the one to leave first, and somehow his hand has found mine – or is it the other way around? – when I pull back to walk away. My hand stays in his until we're far enough apart that we have to let go, and before we do he gives a comforting squeeze. I manage a half-hearted smile for a second, and then our hands part and I feel that familiar coldness that comes when he's been touching me and then no longer is. He remains standing in place as I begin to walk towards home, and a few times I look over my shoulder and meet his eyes. He's not smiling now, but he looks steady and reassuring. And I know that he won't move from where he's standing until I'm out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm guessing a little when it comes to Rory's and Vic's ages. I'm fairly sure Vic was ten in the first book, so he would be twelve now, but all I remember about Rory's age is that he's somewhere in-between his brothers. Therefore I cleverly don't specify his exact age. ;)
> 
> What Peeta says about platitudes, specifically about the sky being blue above the clouds and that after rain follows sunshine, is paraphrasing the song "Tusen Bitar" by Björn Afzelius (actually I don't think he wrote it, but his version is the only one I know, so...). It's one of my favourite songs, as it happens, and it's about how we handle bad things in life.
> 
> I don't know when I will be able to get the next chapter written, but I promise I'll do my best to get it done within a reasonable timeframe.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Feedback is always appreciated. =)


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I managed to finish another chapter already! Probably because about half of it was written while I was stuck on the train, but let's count that as the silver lining of the cloud. ;)
> 
> I guess you could say I've got a surprise coming up this weekend. I wish I could make it come about sooner, but I'm working nights pretty much every day except Saturday throughout Easter, so I'm aiming for the weekend. Until then, this is what I've got for you! =)

The days that follow Madge’s reaping are long and difficult, much more so than I had anticipated. I keep reminding myself that whatever worry, anxiety, anger, grief, frustration, or any other negative emotion I’m feeling it’s nothing in comparison to what the Undersee family is going through. Madge especially. How can I allow myself to feel so bad when I know that in comparison to her, I’m never better? She is constantly on my mind, and the lack of knowledge of what goes on in the Capitol during the days between the reapings and the start of the Games is its own brand of emotional torture. Supposedly the tributes are training, but what does that entail, precisely? How is Madge fairing? Does she have skills I never knew about that come to the forefront now? Is she discovering hidden talents in herself? Or does she retire to her bed every evening with a growing feeling of ineptitude and hopelessness?

     I believe that there is more to the mayor’s daughter than meets the eye – an underlying strength and above all a cunning that could help carry her far in the arena. But at the core of her being, Madge is gentle and sweet, a mild-mannered girl who lacks the ruthlessness that I utilise when I’m in the woods aiming my arrow at a living creature. It would be devastatingly difficult for me to take the life of another human being, and yet I have ample experience killing animals. I cannot even imagine how a person like Madge feels, knowing that in order to survive she is going to have to take human life, and soon.

     Walking through the mostly deserted streets in town, I feel both nervousness and relief that I’m on my way to the bakery to watch the pre-game interviews with Caesar Flickerman. I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of stepping inside Peeta’s home with his entire family there, but I’m not regretful that I accepted his invitation. Having the company of my new friend is the one thing that I think could help me get through this evening. Yesterday I was on the couch at home with Mother and Prim when the tributes’ scores were announced, and it was not a pleasant experience. Mother was as pale as a ghost and retired to her bed as soon as she possibly could. Prim was stressed out, seeming unsure of who to offer the most support and consideration for – her sister, whose friend is a tribute, or her mother, who is a selfish basket case. I have no sympathy left for my mother at this point. What about all of this is so difficult for  _her_? It’s  _my_  friend going into the arena. I don’t care if she is picturing me instead of Madge, and that this is what triggers her frequent episodes of whatever it is that ails her. Her actual daughter is in her house, needing a mother’s care and support. I haven’t spoken a word to my mother since yesterday, and I’m fine keeping it that way for now.

     I make a right turn onto a larger street. I will be at Peeta’s door in about five minutes. The show doesn’t start for another twenty, but there aren’t a lot of people out and about. Most are at home already, getting ready to watch. Around ten minutes from now, peacekeepers will spread out across the streets, ready to catch anyone who is outside and not glued to their television set. If they do find you out on the streets, you had better have a good excuse for not watching the interviews. A sick family member is typically the only acceptable reason, and even then that family member has to be sick enough to require emergent attention. I have calculated my walk to the bakery to allow me to get there in time to avoid any peacekeeper run-ins, but to also make sure I’m not there too early and risk having to make small talk with the Mellark family. The only person I want to see this evening is Peeta.

     Finally I reach the street Peeta lives on, and I head down into the alleyway. I knock firmly, hoping that the sound will carry to whatever room the family might be in. The door opens, and I feel a little bit more at ease when I see the friendly smile on Peeta’s face. He always looks happy to see me, which is a relief these days when it seems nobody else does. He holds the door open for me and, after a moment’s hesitation, I step over the threshold.

     The back door leads directly into the kitchen, which has three large ovens, a couple of large metal containers that I know serve to keep things cold, a square kitchen island in the centre, three bar stools adjacent to the island, and countless shelves holding baking tins, bowls, measuring cups and the like. The place is perfectly clean, not even a spot of flour on any of the surfaces, but it still holds that lovely new baked smell that I discreetly try to fill my nose with each time Peeta’s father opens the door to trade with me. I’ve never seen the kitchen this quiet, or this clean before. I’ve never been here after closing.

     “Where is everybody?” I ask. I’m walking slowly around the room, taking in each detail with wide eyes, afraid to let myself touch any part of the room other than the floor I’m walking on. The place looks so immaculate, and I’m probably covered in coal dust.

     “At my aunt’s.”

     I relax a little. No Mellark family. Just him and me.

     “This place is...”

     “What?” he asks, sounding pleased at my reaction to seeing the room.

     “Not what I expected.”

     “What had you expected?”

     I turn and look at him. He’s sporting a warm smile, standing on the other side of the room, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed under his chest. It’s a good question. I don’t know what I had expected. Something smaller, busier, more crowded. Without the bustling activity during their business hours, the kitchen feels like an entirely different place.

     “There’s a lot of space here.”

     “No, not really. You should be here when the entire family is working together. It would turn to mayhem in five minutes if my mother hadn’t implemented strict discipline right from the start.”

     It’s strange to hear him say the word  _family_. I don’t know why. I guess I just never pictured the baker and his wife and children to be a unit like that. When I think of family I think of the love between my parents and how comfortable and safe our home was when my father was still alive. I think of Gale and his mother and siblings and how they take care of one another and care about each other. I don’t think of the quiet baker, his shrew of a wife, or the two older boys I’ve rarely spoken to.

     “So you all work here together?” I ask, trying to picture it. The place looked crowded enough the other time I was here, and only Peeta and Ryean were working then. “At the same time?”

     “Well, not so much anymore. Ryean isn’t really interested in the business, says he hates the feel of flour on his hands and the heat from the ovens. He likes running the books, and that’s all. My father’s back is becoming a problem for him and bending to take stuff in or out of the oven several times a day or leaning over the work bench to knead the dough isn’t helping.”

     “He should come see my mother,” I say, thinking to myself that I don’t even know what flour feels like on my hands. It’s always my mother who bakes our tesserae bread. “She might be able to help him. She’s good with ointments and things like that.”

     “I don’t think he would do that,” says Peeta, slightly hesitantly.

     “Why not?”

     “They knew each other when they were young.”

     “So?” It hadn’t occurred to me before that they might know one another, mostly because I don’t know how old Peeta’s father is, but it doesn’t surprise me to hear it. Mother was born a merchant, after all. What I don’t understand is how that means Peeta’s father can’t go to her now.

     “Did you know they used to date?” asks Peeta.

     “What? They did?” My jaw drops a bit.

     “Yeah.” He shrugs but seems surprised that I didn’t know. “I guess it would be awkward for him to go to her for help now.”

     “But why?” I ask. “That must have been almost twenty years ago.”

     “My brother Scotti is twenty-one, so I should think at least twenty-two years,” says Peeta dryly. “And time doesn’t matter really… It was pretty serious between them. From my father’s side, anyway.”

     “Meaning what?”

     “He wanted to marry her. She wanted your father instead. Don’t know the details, never asked. It seems enough for him to not want to seek her out now. And I don’t think my mother would like it.”

     For the life of me I can’t imagine that Mrs. Mellark would react with jealousy. The idea of her having strong enough feelings for another person to be jealous seems impossible to me. I can, however, picture her being possessive and not wanting her husband to go visit a woman he used to be in love with, especially when she now lives in the Seam. But even so, if her husband has a bad back and it’s interfering with the way they make their livelihood she is stupid if she doesn’t support him getting help, regardless of where that help comes from. Pride only goes so far.

     “I don’t want to talk about our parents,” shrugs Peeta. “Can I get you anything before the broadcast starts? I thought we’d watch it in here if that’s alright by you.”

     My mouth waters immediately at the thought of the kind of delicious treats Peeta could offer me. Knowing that they often have to eat stale bread makes it improbable that they have cookies and cakes lying around the house but on the other hand they probably don’t get to sell  _everything_  they bake and maybe they can keep what’s not been sold for themselves. If there is stale bread, maybe there are dry cookies. Or maybe they baked more cookies than they could sell today.

     “Well...” I say, trying not to let my voice betray my desire for sweets. “I wouldn’t mind a little something... If it’s not too much trouble.”

     “We don’t have any bread, unfortunately,” says Peeta, getting to work immediately. He walks over to a cabinet and lifts out a round tin box. “No cookies either. We only make them when people order them.”

     “That’s fine,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed.

     “Crackers okay?” he asks, lifting the lid off the box.

     “Oh. Sure.”

     “Okay.” He opens another cabinet and finds a small glass plate. “I think these are cardamom, lemon and... possibly one or two whole-wheat.”

     “That’s fine.” It’s more than fine. I’ve only tasted lemon in lemonade, and only rarely tasted cardamom. It’s unreal to me how Peeta can have such flavours in his home. He may not be well off but compared to how we live in the Seam he still has a lot of luxuries in his life.

     “Tea to go with that?”

     “Thank you.”

     He sets the plate down on the kitchen island, six small crackers on it. My stomach growls a little and I hope he doesn’t hear it. He puts the tin box away in the cabinet and grabs a kettle which he fills up with water. While he busies himself with preparing tea I look at the large clock hanging on the wall. Five minutes until the show starts.

     “Do you take sugar in your tea?” asks Peeta.

     “You have sugar?” I ask in return. I’ve only had sugar in my tea when I’ve visited Madge and I definitely prefer taking it that way but at home we can’t afford wasting luxury items on a cup of tea.

     “This is a bakery,” he answers with a smile.

     “Oh. Of course.”

     He pulls out a small square drawer from a compartment by his head and from where I stand I can see that it’s filled with beautiful, white sugar. To have that much sugar in your kitchen, right there in front of you. I can’t imagine it.

     “One or two spoons?” asks Peeta, scooping sugar with what looks like a silver teaspoon.

     “One.” I would absolutely like two, but I don’t want to be greedy.

     He adds the precious white grains to my mug and stirs, but I note that he doesn’t put any in his own. Immediately I frown. Should I have declined the offer? Did he only ask to be polite and the expected answer was no?

     “Whatever it is you’re thinking so hard about, cut it out,” he says in a friendly tone, eyeing me from the side as he stirs my cup. “Have a seat, instead.”

     “Are… are you sure you can spare the sugar?” I manage, feeling like a fool.

     “Yes, quite sure,” he says with a smile, thankfully not laughing at me. “My father and my brothers seem like they can’t drink tea without it, so…” Before I can comment on the lack of sugar in his mug he carries both mugs over to me and sets them down on the corner of the kitchen island. “I’m going to get a bit of cold water in mine, to cool it enough so I can drink from it right away. You want some?”

     “No,” I say, perplexed by the idea.

     “Have a seat,” he encourages and brings his mug over to the faucet. I do as told and return his small smile as he walks back to me. “The cold-water thing is probably rather silly,” he says, sounding a little bashful which to my surprise tugs at something in my chest. “I just really hate burning my tongue.”

     “I hate burns in general,” I offer by reply and blow a little on my tea to cool it. Then I surprise myself by holding out my mug to him. “Actually I think I’ll try your cold-water trick too. Sounds worth a go!”

     He grins at me and takes the mug. He nods at the remote to the television and tells me to turn it on while he fixes my tea and with that any positive emotions I was feeling before are gone. I’m not here to spend time with my new friend and enjoy some tea and biscuits. I’m here to have some friendly company and moral support as I watch Madge Undersee, the only female friend I’ve ever had, be interviewed by Caesar Flickerman on the eve of her entering the Hunger Games arena.

     Peeta walks over to me and hands me my mug, his hand landing on my shoulder and offering a comforting squeeze. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to. Holding back I sigh I cradle the mug between my hands and lean in towards him, drawing strength from the comfort he offers. He squeezes my shoulder again and allows the silence to linger for as long as I need it to. It feels surprisingly good under the circumstances. I close my eyes for a few seconds and breathe deeply, wondering if I would have been able to stand whatever is to come without the support of a friend like Peeta. With Gale gone I would have had nobody anymore if not for him. Out on the Meadow after the Reaping, Peeta assured me that Gale would come through for me in spite of everything, given what has happened. Some part of me wanted to believe he might be right. But he doesn’t know Gale, and he doesn’t know the kind of pain I’ve caused him. No dark-haired, grey eyed coalminer has shown up at my door in the days following Madge’s reaping, and I doubt that will change during the course of the Games.

     Caesar’s familiar theme tune begins to play and the man of all smiles and frighteningly white teeth and colourful wigs comes on screen, looking like a proud papa here to showcase his babies before they head off for brighter futures. His hair and eyebrows this year are canary yellow with a dark brown streak in the middle. It looks utterly ridiculous but nothing about this man, or his function, invites laughter. He flashes his trademark grin and this year his teeth seem even whiter than normal. He must have gotten himself someone new to do his teeth – or gotten himself brand new teeth.

     “Happy Hunger Games,” I mutter along with him, wondering to myself if he actually believes the excitement he tries to sell. Then I scoff at myself. Of course he does. Nobody in the Capitol knows the first thing about fear or sacrifice or fighting for survival. Caesar Flickerman no doubt lives and breathes the Hunger Games.

     “I’m always ambivalent about this part,” says Peeta, taking a seat beside me. His hand leaves my shoulder and the absence of his heat is noticeable as always. “On one hand I want to pay attention and try and pinpoint which tributes are the biggest threat to ours. One the other I don’t want to feel any interest in what goes on at all, I mean, it feels like if I do I’m feeding the monster.” He sighs. “And then on yet another hand I kind of feel like I owe it to all twenty-four of them to hang on their every word.”

     “Why?” I scoff. The first tribute, the female from District 1, is being called up for her interview and just the sight of her, proud and cocky grin in place and a cold, almost murderous glint in her eyes, makes me dislike her deeply. There must be something wrong with a person who can be up on that stage, less than twenty-four hours to go before they enter the arena, and feel  _excitement_  and anticipation.

     “Because they matter,” answers Peeta. Judging by the look on his face he doesn’t share my view on the girl from the career district. “This is their last chance to… I mean… Tomorrow many of them will die and the rest will be suffering for days, or weeks, until they, too, die. Career tributes included. This is their last night of relative safety and comfort and most of them didn’t choose to be there. They deserve my attention – to be seen. And to be heard.” He pauses and leans forward to grab his tea mug. “That goes for the careers as well. Deep down I don’t think they necessarily  _like_  the idea of fighting twenty-three other kids to the death.” He sips his tea carefully, trying to avoid burning his tongue even with the added water. “But peer pressure, from an entire district at that, is a powerful thing.”

     I turn my eyes back to the television and to the eighteen-year-old girl with thick, gorgeous mahogany hair falling in perfectly styled locks down to just below her shoulders. Her dark brown eyes are full of confidence and the way she tosses her hair and laughs merrily at Caesar’s remarks doesn’t make me think she has any problem whatsoever being in the situation she is in. If anything I think she looks like she’s loving every minute of it. But when her interview is over, and we’re treated to a shot of the next five tributes who will be interviewed, I have to admit to myself that most of them seem a bit on edge.

     The boy from One takes the stage, grinning cockily. He can afford to be cocky. Not only is he a career tribute, he looks to be strong and burly, and he received a score of ten. The highest one this year, tied with two other tributes.

     “I root against that fellow already,” I say grumpily. Peeta gives me a raised eyebrow but instead of commenting he holds up the plate with crackers and offers me one. I manage to stop scowling and take one. “Thank you.”

     “He’s a threat, for sure,” Peeta finally says, setting the plate down and taking a cracker for himself. He bites into it and makes a surprised face. “Oh. I was wrong,” he says, mouth full of cracker. He chews, wipes crumbs from his mouth and swallows. “These aren’t whole-wheat. They’re cinnamon.” His brow wrinkles comically. “I didn’t know we’d  _made_  cinnamon crackers.”

     I can’t tell if he’s serious or trying to wring a smile out of me. If it’s the latter then he succeeds a little bit, and I bite into my own cracker, finding it to taste of neither cinnamon nor lemon, which means this is cardamom.

     “They’re good,” I offer.

     “They’re dry and can literally seem to grow in your mouth if they’ve got enough days on them, but it’s all we’ve got.”

     “They’re great, Peeta.”

     Up on stage with Caesar, the boy from One brags about how his score from the gamemakers proves that he is a force to be reckoned with this year. Peeta chuckles dryly and dunks his cracker in his tea before taking another bite,

     “He seems to be forgetting that he’s not the only one with a score of ten,” he remarks.

     “He’s either an idiot or high on his own self-importance, or both.”

     “It’s not like he got an eleven. Not like he got a  _twelve_. That would be something worth bragging about. I mean, when was the last time someone got a score of twelve?” He points with his pinkie to one of the crackers. “Try that one next. It’s lemon.”

     “Thanks.” I reach out and grab the cracker, so I won’t forget which one was which.

     “So what do you think of Madge’s score?” He sounds almost too casual. “Think it will help her?”

     “She got an eight. That’s a helpful score.”

     “Yeah. Yeah, it is,” he nods. “A strong number, yet not so high it makes her a target.” A look of sadness clouds his face for a moment. “Far better than Eric’s five. His family must be…” He shakes his head and wipes crumbs off his thighs. “You know what, sorry I brought it up. Let’s not talk about him, just for this evening. It’s difficult enough with Madge.”

     I say nothing, but on the inside I feel like some form of monster. I had put Eric Riven from my mind as much as I possibly could. I don’t want to think about the boy from the Seam who turned fourteen just five weeks ago. He needs to die in order for Madge to live, that’s unspeakably cruel but unavoidable no matter how you shake it. I don’t want to sympathise with Eric Riven, or his family. I don’t want to spend a single moment wondering what’s going through his mind, if he’s crying himself to sleep at night, how his brothers and sisters are holding up. I want him to be… not really a person to me. I can’t tell Peeta that, I can’t even tell  _Prim_  that, because I know that says something about me that… I mean, what good person, what decent person, what  _humane_  person would take that stance? The truth is that I am no better than the Capitol people this year, and I am not sure that this threshold that I’m crossing is one a person can fully come back from once it’s all over. I will have to find a way to live with myself. As long as I get my Madge back home alive, I think I stand a chance at doing so.

     “Maybe we should talk as little about him as possible,” I mumble in a low voice.

     “Oh. Right. Absolutely. Do you, uh, would you like more tea?”

     “No, thank you.”

     Right now I just want to think about anything else except for what an awful person I am, and having someone genuinely kind like Peeta offer me tea and crackers makes me feel even worse, like I don’t deserve to sit here and enjoy such refreshments when the poor fourteen-year-old whose existence I wish I could forget all about is suffering in the Capitol, and about to enter an arena where he will no doubt starve and thirst – if he even survives the cornucopia bloodbath, that is.

     Peeta looks at me with a slightly furrowed brow, no doubt wondering what put me in such a withdrawn mood all of a sudden. He turns his eyes to the television, where the girl from Two is currently being interviewed.

     “She got a score of 10, as well,” he points out. “Our District 1 friend is already looking less stand-out impressive.”

     “What was her name again?” I ask dejectedly, just trying to keep a conversation going so that I can hopefully think of something other than, well, the thing I don’t want to keep thinking of.

     “Servilia. Sounds a lot like ‘servant’, don’t you think?”

     “Yeah, perhaps.”

     Servilia, the eighteen-year-old girl from Two with a score of ten, whose blonde hair reaches down to her knees – which is more than can be said for her dress – is full of confidence, typical for a career. She’s telling Caesar how she’s got so many talents that it was hard to choose just one to impress the gamemakers with for her private session.

     “The problems some people face,” says Peeta, shaking his head dramatically. He takes a deep sip from his mug, wiping his mouth while setting it back down again. Then he looks at me with spiked interest. “What do you suppose Madge did for her individual session with the gamemakers? Do you know of any skill she might have, that would have impressed them? She must have done fairly well for herself; a score of eight isn’t bad.”

     “I don’t know,” I say, embarrassed to admit it. “She’s never talked about… having any skills. And I never asked.”

     “Well, why would you? That’s just morbid, going around asking your friends what their impress-the-gamemakers-skill would be in case they were reaped.”

     “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

     “No, you feeling better would just be a bonus.” He looks pensive as Servilia’s interview finishes and her district partner Mars takes the stage. He’s eighteen too and holds a score of nine. Better than Madge. He takes a seat and Caesar begins the interview, but Peeta’s contemplative face turns back to me again. “Are you thinking about visiting her parents?”

     “What?” I don’t quite understand what he’s asking me, and my bewilderment must be written plainly on my face, but he’s kind enough not to spell it out for me like I’m an idiot or something.

     “The Mayor and his wife, are you thinking about visiting them?”

     “No, why would I?” I ask, reaching for my mug and finishing the last sips of tea. “Should I? Do, do you think I ought to?”

     “I don’t know if I think you  _ought_  to,” he says with a scowl, grabbing his mug and sipping some more tea. “I would consider it, if I were you.”

     “So, you think I ought to,” I surmise, annoyed that he can’t just give me a straight answer.

     “Considering it is not the same as doing it. I don’t know Madge’s parents. I don’t know if it’s something they would appreciate. You do. I don’t know if it’s something  _Madge_  would appreciate, but you do. That’s what I mean when I say I think you should consider it.”

     “Got it,” I say curtly.

     I think about it for several minutes, not saying a word while Caesar interviews the tributes from Three and the girl from Four. The thought had not even crossed my mind, but for Peeta to ask me about it then it must be something some people might expect me to do. Including Mayor and Mrs. Undersee? Despite what Peeta just said I don’t know if they would want me to visit, or expect me to. I don’t know them very well at all. Mayor Undersee is usually busy working when I’ve visited Madge, and Mrs. Undersee seems to spend a lot of time lying in bed with whatever ailment it is that she suffers from. Madge and I would normally be by ourselves. Though maybe that is a reason why I ought to visit them. And knowing that Madge is only really friends with me there won’t be many others who come to see how they are doing.

     “People are strange,” says Peeta, breaking the silence. I try and focus on the interviews, wondering what I just missed to prompt him to say that. “There might be any number of people who come and visit her parents while the Games are on, pretending to be their friends, maybe genuinely wanting to offer sympathy and support… I can imagine at least a handful of people we went to school with who would come by and make out to have been good friends with Madge while we were in school, either because they are those kind of people who genuinely want to offer support, or because they’re curious to see the inside of the Mayor’s home, or… well, because some people simply like to be at the centre of where things are happening. It makes them feel more important, more alive even, perhaps.”

     “I… don’t follow…”

     “What I’m trying to say is, there might be all kinds of people coming to visit Madge’s parents in the near future. No doubt their own friends will be there to support them. Only you, though, are Madge’s real, actual friend. I think they would really appreciate a visit from you if you feel like it’s something you’re comfortable doing.” He pauses, then makes a face. “Or I’m all wrong, and no one comes by and claims to be a friend of Madge’s. That’s a distinct possibility, too.”

     “I guess I should go, then,” I say, far from convinced that I want to.

     “Yeah – only if you  _want to_ , though. If you’re not, you shouldn’t do it.”

     “Why does this matter to you?” I have to ask. “Why even think to ask me about it, I mean? It’s not something you ask someone when you’re friends, is it?”

     “No, I guess not.” He sets his mug back down again and grabs another cracker. “I think… if you want to, and feel comfortable with it, then going to visit her parents could be a great help and maybe even source of comfort for all three of you. She doesn’t have any siblings, and she doesn’t have a boyfriend...”

     “She probably could have had,” I sigh dejectedly. Watching him take a bite from the cracker I pick up the lemon flavoured one I grabbed for myself earlier and move it in my hand as if to study it from several angles. “She really likes Harry Storm, who was her project partner. I think he liked her, too.”

     “Yeah?” he asks with a bite of cracker still in his mouth. He quickly swallows it down. “Do you know why they didn’t take it further, if they both like each other?”

     “Both too shy, I guess.”

     “That’s such a shame,” he says, looking really troubled. “Not that I can’t relate…” He clears his throat. “I take it her parents don’t know about Harry?”

     “What’s there to know?”

     “Right…” He takes another bite from his cracker, this time chewing and swallowing before speaking. “Which brings me back to my original thought. You are the person she is closest to outside her family. I think it would mean a lot to her mother and father if Madge’s best friend came to visit them while she is in the arena. I think it would help you, too, to spend some time with your best friend’s parents. Kind of like… you are each other’s link to her, you know?” He blushes. “Or am I just talking nonsense? Platitudes and blue skies above clouds and such?”

     “No…” I say, furrowing my brow as I think about the things he’s said. “No, you’re not talking nonsense. I don’t know if it’s something I’d want to do, but… but I should probably give it some thought at the least.”

     “Okay,” he nods, smiling faintly. “Are you sure I can’t get you more tea?”

     This time I nod.

     “Yes, please. More tea would be great.”

     “And you wanted sugar?”

     “Add some cold water, too.”

     He smiles at me as he rises and grabs both our mugs to go fill them up again. While he’s off doing that, I watch the screen, where currently the fifteen-year-old girl from District 6 is being interviewed. I remember that she had a low score, but I’ll probably have to ask Peeta to know exactly what it was. Watching her speak to Caesar, doing a poor job of hiding how nervous she is, I begin to wonder about her friends and family back home in District 6. Have they gathered together to watch this tonight? Does she have brothers or sisters? Are both her parents alive? Grandparents? Will her friends do what Peeta suggested that I could do, and go visit her parents? Ought they to?

     Peeta comes back again and hands me my mug. I stir it with my spoon absentmindedly, and when I take a sip I notice that it tastes sweeter than my first mug. I look over at Peeta but say nothing. He must have guessed that I would have liked another spoon of sugar and gone ahead and added one on his own behest. That’s just the kind of thing he would do. The kind of thing that would drive me crazy because it’s a form of charity, and I don’t take kindly to that. He has a frustrating way of circumventing me on that score, in a way that makes me accept the things he does for me without question.

     “Did you like the lemon cracker?” he asks.

     “It was nice…” I stop myself before I can praise it further. Why am I doing this? I don’t particularly care for sour flavours, and this is not some acquaintance I have to be polite with at all times. This is Peeta. My friend. I can be honest. “Actually, a little too sour for my preference.”

     “You should have told me,” he says. “I would have foregone the lemon ones and gotten more of the cardamom!”

     “Don’t worry about it.”

     “Well I want to be a good host,” he smiles.

     “You are,” I assure him. My eyes turn downward, away from the television and the interview with the sixteen-year-old boy from Six. “And a good friend.” His hand is on the kitchen island, resting right beside his tea mug, ready to pick it up whenever he fancies a sip. I place my own hand on top of it and give it a squeeze. “You’ve been such a good friend to me, and you’ve had no reason to be.”

     I look up at him and our eyes meet. His voice has a strange, husky quality to it when he answers me.

     “Do I need a reason to be?”

     “Most people haven’t wanted to be my friend. Most people find me unappealing.”

     “No,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Katniss you have no idea at all, do you?”

     “About what?”

     “The effect you can have,” he says, tentatively smiling. He pulls his hand away from under mine, ostensibly to have a drink from his mug. I’m about to ask him to elaborate, because I don’t have the slightest clue what he’s trying to tell me, but he continues on his own volition, nursing the mug between both his hands. “You know, most people at school admired you. It’s true! Don’t scoff at me. You are the brave girl who goes out beyond the fences, who trades at the Hob, who jokes with peacekeepers.”

     “I joke with one peacekeeper.”

     “That makes one more than most of us. Katniss you are such a strong, fearless person. People may have avoided getting to know you, but I assure you, it was not because they think you’re unlikeable.”

     He doesn’t say anything more, leaving me frustratingly curious. I would very much like to know why, then, they have avoided getting to know me better, but I feel foolish and self-absorbed asking. Peeta looks oddly uncomfortable for some reason. I furrow my brow and lean a bit closer to him.

     “Perhaps you are right…” I say. “Perhaps a lot of people at school would have liked to get to know me better, strange as that sounds to me…” I put my hand on him again, this time a bit higher up on his forearm. “But you were the only one who bothered, other than Madge. I don’t know why you did, but I am very grateful. I’ve never needed a friend more than I do right now.”

     “What, uh, what about Gale?”

     For a moment the question makes me uncomfortable, like he’s asking about my boyfriend and what he would think about me sitting here in another guy’s home, touching his arm. But of course that’s not what he means. I shake my head slowly, sighing heavily.

     “Gale hasn’t shown up to check on me. I told you, I hurt him pretty bad, and he doesn’t want to see me.”

     “It’s none of my business whatsoever what occurred between the pair of you,” says Peeta softly. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m asking though because I’m your friend, and I want to be there for you. I want to help you.”

     “With Gale?” I ask with a questioning laugh.

     “With anything. Everything.” That leaves me speechless, my hand slowly falling from his arm, down my side. I glance over at the television, wonder if I can suggest we just watch the interviews like we said we were going to, but all the same this is a conversation I might want to have. “Katniss,” says Peeta. “Did you cheat on him? You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

     “But if I don’t answer that pretty much means I did, right?” I point out with a joyless chuckle.

     “I… didn’t think about that. Never mind. Ignore the question. I was just asking because that’s the worst thing I can imagine someone I love doing to me. But even if you did do that to him, if it had been you and me together and you had done it to me… Your best female friend has been reaped! She’s going into the arena  _tomorrow_! Nothing else matters right now, except being here for you.”

     A tear escapes my left eye and I quickly wipe it away. My hand finds his again and he lets go of the mug to allow our fingers to intertwine. I give his hand a squeeze. He squeezes back.

     “You are so good to me… Why are you so good to me?” His cheeks turn mildly red and he looks away, as if he’s embarrassed. “I didn’t cheat. But I’m not so sure that what I did wasn’t more or less as bad to do not only to a boyfriend, but one who was my best friend going in.”

     “Even so,” says Peeta, meeting my eyes again. “I think he’s wrong to not show up and offer you support. I am more than happy to be there for you, whatever you need, come what may, as long as this nightmare with Madge goes on – and after, for that matter. But I wish for you to have Gale as well. He knows you better. He’s been your friend for so long. I think you need and want him there.”

     “I gave up that right,” I sigh, releasing his hand and taking a sip of tea. “I can’t judge him for not being able to set aside his hurt and all the betrayal he feels. You shouldn’t either.”

     “Katniss being somebody’s friend, somebody’s genuine friend, means that when something terrible happens to that person you are  _there_  for them. Whatever is going on between you can wait. You press pause, you set aside the ugliness of whatever that person did to you, whatever it is you might be fighting about.” He furrows his brow, bites his bottom lip, then draws a deep breath. “Let me ask you this: If things had been the other way around, and it was Gale who did to you what you did to him, and Gale’s only male friend was reaped, would you turn your back on him?”

     That’s an impossible question for me to find the answer to. To begin with, I cannot even imagine being in Gale’s shoes right now, because I’ve never been in love like that. I’ve never wanted another person so much that I was convinced that we would be together forever, that anything else would be unfathomable. It goes to follow that I’ve also never had that person date me but fail to fall in love with me in return, yet all the same stayed with me after that should have been obvious to him. I can’t put myself in Gale’s shoes. I try to imagine if Gale had hurt and betrayed me in some other way, doesn’t matter how, just really, really badly. I’m still not sure. Or maybe I am, but I don’t want to admit to it. I am not a forgiving person. I’m just not.

     “You’re such an idealist, Peeta,” I sigh, looking down at my hands that are moving the cracker back and forth.

     “Maybe,” he nods. “This is not about idealism. It’s about what being a real friend means. And I’m not judging the guy. Yet. He might need some more time before he can take a breath and come knock on your door. Katniss, I’m telling you, if he is your best friend, if he is that guy I’ve seen you haul dead animals all over town with, if he’s… He will come through for you. Friends don’t leave one another hanging. They don’t walk away when they’re needed the most, regardless of what has transpired.”

     I feel a lump forming in my throat, and my voice feels thick when I speak.

     “I guess he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore, then.”

     Peeta looks down for a couple of seconds, giving me some space. Then he reaches for the plate of biscuits and holds it up to me, offering me the last one.

     “So I get to have monopoly of you until Madge comes back?”

     It’s not all that funny a joke, but I laugh nonetheless, more from the tension breaking than anything else. I take the cracker, wrap my arm around his neck and lean in to kiss him on the cheek. With a surprisingly comfortable sigh I then rest my head against the nape of his neck.

     “Sucks to be you, Peeta. I hope you’re prepared, because I might need a whole lot of friending until this is over.”

     “Good thing seniors graduate early. I’ve got time on my hands.”

     I pull back my arm and he sets the plate back down, shifting on his barstool to get a more comfortable position. I smile shakily at him.

     “So, uhm…” I say, feeling very sad yet kind of happy at the same time. I might as well come to terms with having lost Gale’s friendship for good but having gained Peeta’s is worth more than all the turkeys and the rabbits and the squirrels in the forest at this point. “Should we watch the interviews for a while? They’re already on District 9.”

     “We should,” he says with a sigh. “Here I was making this big thing about how it’s important that all of them are seen before they die in the arena, and I barely even watch their interviews. As far as friends go, you’re very distracting.”

     “You love that about me,” I declare cockily.

     “I suppose I do,” he says with a light chuckle.

     So we watch the rest of the interviews, making sure to pay good attention to what they all have to say, trying to get some measure of an idea of who they are as persons. We talk throughout, making comments about their scores, their chances in the arena, how big of a threat they might be to Madge, if they could possibly be an ally for her… It’s about as relaxed as watching the pre-arena interviews can be, and I have to admit that I’ve never had such a comfortable experience watching these interviews before. Not even when I’ve watched with Prim. Nor when I’ve watched them with Gale. It’s not a fun evening in front of the television, this is still the Hunger Games we’re watching, but in Peeta’s company it doesn’t feel one hundred percent awful.

     When Madge walks on stage it seems my emotions, as well as my face, can’t seem to make up its mind as to how to react. All at once I’m so glad to see her and see that she’s looking well, and heartbroken that this is the last time I will see her safe and comfortable until the Games are over – or ever, possibly. I want to smile, and I want to scowl, and I want to cry, but my face decides to settle on tightly pursed lips and a furrowed brow.

     “She looks good,” offers Peeta. “Like she’s keeping it together.”

     “I’ve never seen her with this much makeup before…” I comment, more to myself than to him.

     Her stylist has not gone overboard and packed on the makeup like the girls from some of the early districts, but she’s wearing a softly glistening copper coloured eyeshadow, and her beautiful blue eyes are framed by eyeliner and mascara. Her eyebrows have all but disappeared, remaining only as thin, bowed lines. There’s light rouge on her cheeks and on her lips is lipstick that is vibrant without being too red. The eyeshadow matches the gorgeous copper coloured gown she’s wearing, a floor-length creation with a heart neckline and below her shoulders falls a few rows of what I guess are sleeves, made up to look like shimmering copper wings. And around her neck is a very expensive looking necklace with a mockingbird pendant. Every now and then the bird seems to gently flap it wings.

     But more importantly than clothing and makeup, she looks  _well_. Almost as if she’s not going to enter the 76 th arena tomorrow morning. A new kind of confidence and strength seems to radiate from her, and it makes me so damn proud to see it. So proud, in fact, that I have to blink away a stray tear or two, hoping that Peeta doesn’t notice. When she begins to talk her voice sounds a little bit deeper than normal, calm and strong and resilient. For the first time since the reaping I’m beginning to feel a genuine sense of hope awaken in my chest.

     “So tell me Madge Undersee,” says Caesar, “how have you prepared yourself for the battles to come? What strategy have you come up with to take the victory in these, the 76th Hunger Games?”

     “Surely, Caesar, you know full well that I can’t divulge my strategy right here, right now, with all my fellow tributes listening,” Madge says with a strangely serene smile, clasping her hands on her lap. She looks calm, in control. The knot in my stomach grows tighter, the thought that I might watch her die tomorrow morning really beginning to take hold of me. “But I can assure you that I have a plan in place and I will execute it to the detail.”

     “Oh, come now,” says Caesar in his flamboyant fashion. “You can’t just tease us like that! You have to give me  _something_!” He turns to the audience. “Right folks?”

     The entire studio audience roar with encouragement and Madge laughs, actually  _flirts_  with the camera, with the audience. I’ve never seen her like this before.

     “She’s good,” says Peeta in a low voice, careful not to speak over anything she might say. His eyes are glued to the television, just like my own.

     “Yeah,” I nod. I can tell she’s putting on a performance. I’ve known her for so many years now. But the people watching at home, those who’ve never seen her before she stepped on to the stage on Reaping Day, they are going to swallow this hook, line and sinker.

     “Tell you what,” she says, leaning forward and patting Caesar on the knee. “Be a good boy and I might give you a hint by the end of our interview.”

     Caesar turns to the audience again, his mouth forming a big O and his hand coming up to cover it. The audience eats it all up with enthusiasm. As the crowd quiets down Caesar’s expression turns serious, the hint of compassion in his eyes.

     “Now, Madge… Besides being the District 12 mayor’s daughter, you are also part of our extended Hunger Games family already. Isn’t that right?”

     Madge’s smile fades almost completely. She looks down at her lap, swallows and nods. I frown, wondering what this is all about. More showmanship? I can’t tell.

     “Yes Caesar, it’s true,” she says. She looks up at him, keeping her eyes on him and avoiding looking out into the audience or into the cameras. A complete shift compared to a moment ago. “My aunt… She was a tribute, you see.”

     My jaw drops, and my heart begins to pound. The studio audience goes wild over this bit of trivia. I look at Peeta, who has leaned back on his barstool and crossed his arms, scowling and clenching his jaw.

     “What aunt?” I ask. “Did you know she had an aunt? Her parents are both only childr…” I stop myself before I can finish the sentence. Her parents are only children  _now_. If Madge had an aunt who was a tribute I can deduce what happened. I turn my eyes back at the screen, my heart feeling heavy and sad, even more so than before.

     “I don’t know the details,” Peeta answers in a murmur. “I know, though, that Mrs. Undersee had a sister. My mother told me once.”

     “Oh God…” I say faintly. In the corner of my eye I think I see Peeta turning his attention to me, like he’s waiting to spring into action if I should start to blubber again or something. I lean forward, my eyes again glued to my best friend. How come she never mentioned this aunt to me?

     “Your aunt was a tribute,” nods Caesar solemnly. “And I know she didn’t win her Games. The second Quarter Quell, no less. It was District 12’s very own Haymitch Abernathy who won that year.”

     “Yes. Maysilee, my aunt, was in the same arena as my mentor.”

     “What?” I say in a croaking exhale. This explains a whole lot. It explains Haymitch’s behaviour from the moment her name was drawn. I just assumed it was due to who her father was, that Haymitch was an elitist snob at heart, but I got it all wrong. If he was a tribute with Madge’s aunt no wonder he wants to go the extra mile for her. But is it to honour a fallen friend and co-tribute? Or is it to make amends for past betrayals? I get the strong, sudden urge to watch the second Quarter Quell and find out every detail for myself, but I’m not sure I can stomach that right as the 76th Games are about to start.

     “Well, I hope you will have better luck than your aunt,” Caesar says. Still sounding compassionate, which he doesn’t have to do – to the Capitol audience being related to a tribute, even a dead one, is a great honour. “I hope the odds will be ever in your favour – more so than for her. And I know that you will make her proud.”

     “Thank you Caesar,” says Madge, a touch if steel in her voice. Her hand comes up and tosses a long tress of hair over her shoulder. On its way back to her lap her fingers graze the mockingjay, and its eyes seem to light up, its wings responding to her touch. “But, you know… Those two are actually not connected. Having good luck and having the odds in your favour, I mean.”

     “Oh?”

     “Luck means leaving it all to chance. You can optimize your odds as much as possible.” Her eyes finally turn back to the cameras, though this time she’s not smiling nor trying to charm the audience in any way. She is still performing though, I can tell. Her gaze through the camera lens seems to bear straight into you and there’s a strong unspoken message there. Madge Undersee, to my admitted surprise, knows how to play the game and she intends to be a force to be reckoned with. “Believe me when I tell you… I have spent my whole life optimizing the odds as much as possible.”

     “Wow,” says Caesar. “Well you are going to be a thrill to watch, Madge Undersee!”

     “Wow indeed…” says Peeta. As Madge’s interview has ended now I turn to look at him. “I think she’s telling the truth. I think she  _has_  been optimizing her odds as much as she possibly can.”

     “Yeah, but it’s the  _Hunger Games_ ,” I object. I cannot bring myself to feel confident over her statements. There are far too many dangers awaiting her, not the least of which is 23 other tributes who are all prepared to kill up to 23 times if necessary, in order to win the Games and their lives. “Gamemakers control everything. How can you optimize anything with all those variables in play?”

     “But she didn’t say she had prepared herself for any eventuality,” replies Peeta. He reaches forward and grabs the remote, turning the volume down even though it’s Eric’s turn to be interviewed now. “You can probably do all sorts of calculations on how the arenas have looked, what kind of weapons have been most effective…”

     I shiver at the thought. Madge with a weapon. I can’t even imagine Madge killing a mouse, much less another human being.

     “I don’t know,” I say. “I still think it sounds so very… So much like it’s still down to luck. It doesn’t matter if most arenas have taken place in a woodland area if this one takes place in a desert.”

     “True,” nods Peeta. “But no one can ever know exactly what you’re facing as a tribute. All you can do is maximize your odds. Frankly it sounds like one of the better strategies I’ve seen in recent years. Take studying the arenas as an example. Say that this year  _is_  one of the more common types of arenas and she’s prepared herself to survive in that environment. Right there you’ve got one up on the others.”

     “Only they’ll probably be aware that it’s a common kind of arena, too.”

     “Well then, say that she’s done her homework and figured out that the most effective weapon has been… the spear. And she spent the prep week mastering it as much as possible. One more factor in her favour. Now add a dozen,  _two_  dozen other details like this. Madge will have a clear advantage over the rest of the lot.”

     I can’t formulate a proper counter argument, yet I remain unconvinced. We turn our eyes back to the television where Eric’s interview is coming to an end. We barely heard a word of it. So much for owing it to the tributes to hang on their every word.

     Peeta gets up and begins to clear the kitchen island. I remain seated at his insistence. Caesar wraps up the evening and I feel my nervousness nearly get the better of me. I can only imagine what the mayor and his wife must be going through. Especially Madge’s mother, who lost a sister in the Quarter Quell. She’s already had to experience a loved one interviewed by Caesar, getting their score, going into the arena. To have to do it all over again, with your own daughter, is a form of hell I cannot even imagine.

     We get to see another shot of Madge, standing amongst the other tributes, and I try to memorize every detail. I tilt my head slightly, noticing something just as the brief shot of her shifts to one of a different tribute. Her face looks fuller, doesn’t it? Her whole body, in fact. She’s never had to starve but she’s never been a chubby girl. She isn’t now either, but she definitely looks like she’s gained a few kilos already, in the brief week that’s gone by since she left District 12. Despite myself I smile. She’s been loading up on food, building reserves. Good girl. That is a very smart move.

     In fact, it seems like just the kind of thing one might do if they wanted to heighten their odds.

     “So how do you feel?” asks Peeta. He’s walked back to me and is taking his seat again, this time shifting his body towards me rather than the television. His concern warms me, and I wish I could give him a genuine smile, but I know he’s not going to mind the lack thereof. It’s funny, but in a way he knows me so well after those months spent working on the project that it almost feels like he is my boyfriend – in a strictly non-romantic sense, oxymoronic as that may be.

     “I don’t know.” I laugh briefly, mirthlessly. “Well I feel incredibly nervous and all but who am I to feel that way? I’m not her family and I’m not  _her_. By comparison I’m doing swell.”

     “Don’t say that Katniss, of course you get to feel frightened,” he replies. “People  _should_  feel that way when someone they care about go into the arena.”

     Now I actually do smile, even if it’s only a very small smile.

     “I’m really glad it’s not you there in the Capitol with her,” I say. The words tumble out of my mouth on their own accord, but I don’t regret having spoken them. The bashful blush and endearing smile I get as a reward makes me feel better than I have in days. Since we parted ways in the Meadow. “It would have been an absolute nightmare having two of my dearest friends there at the same time.”

     “Is it an awful thing to say that I’m really glad it’s not you there in the Capitol, too?” he asks.

     “No,” I tell him. “No, you’ve never been as close with Madge.”

     As I say the words I realize their hidden message – that he  _is_  close with me. And I find it feels like a good statement to make. It doesn’t feel like a lie. His hand lands on my leg, just above my knee, and gives a reassuring squeeze.

     “I honestly do believe that she’s got a great chance to survive,” he tells me. I notice that he didn’t say  _win_. “Just look at how she carried herself tonight. She charmed people at the start of her interview, won their sympathies in the middle and presented herself as someone to keep an eye out for at the end. And if you want to know what I believe, I think that being  _interesting_  is one of the best ways to go. We all know the gamemakers can control the arena to push the narrative in certain directions. To the people in the Capitol this isn’t a lethal sport as much as it is high entertainment. Keep them entertained and they will try to keep you around for as long as possible.”

     “You make it sound like something different than what it really is.”

     “The goal of the Hunger Games is to entertain the masses in the Capitol,” he says, moving his hand off my leg. “To subjugate the districts, sure, but ultimately – to entertain the Capitol.”

     I have nothing to say to that. It’s getting late, and now that the program is over I’m sure his family will be on their way home. They have to be up before sunrise to get the baking started in time. I don’t wish to head home and leave the comfort of my friend’s company in exchange for my mother’s total mental and emotional absence and my sister’s insecurity over how to speak to me after the weeks I’ve had. But I have to get going nonetheless.

     “I should go…” I say, sliding down from the barstool. “Peeta thank you so much for tonight. You don’t know what it means to me.”

     “Anytime, Katniss,” he says, a small, sad smile on his face. “I mean that. Anytime you want some company watching the Hunger Games you come knocking here, do you hear?”

     “What if you’re not home?” I blurt out.

     “I will be.” He pulls me close for a hug that feels dangerously good, some measure of the attraction I’ve felt for him on-and-off rising to the surface. He kisses my cheek, releases me from his embrace far too soon and follows me to the door. “And thank  _you_ … for trusting me.”

     I pause with my hand on the doorknob, giving him a soft, unhappy smile. The ache in my chest intensifies at the thought of leaving this warm kitchen and this warm-hearted boy and head out alone into the dark night. I pull myself together, thinking of how Madge must be feeling right now. Who am I to feel unhappy in comparison?

     “Sleep well, Peeta,” I mumble, then I hurry out into the darkness, hearing the door close behind me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the interviews (including Eric's) kind of go by at warp speed, but call it plot time or something.
> 
> I know in "Mockingjay" Katniss brings up Peeta not taking sugar in his tea, but the cold water thing is nowhere to be found in canon. I threw it in there because it's a quirk of my own. Maybe Peeta picked it up in the past year or so, in-story. =) Maybe it's odd that all he can offer her here is crackers, when he's brought her family cookies in the past, but I'm thinking that whatever he brought her when they were studying were things sent by his father, and he doesn't want to give away any fancier things without permission. Or maybe they simply didn't have anything else on this particular occasion.
> 
> I've been giving a lot of thought to how much of Madge's Hunger Games to include in the main story... Katniss and Peeta were in their first arena for a few weeks, if memory serves, and I will spoil as much as to say that Madge is not going to die in the first few days. The issue is whether to include as much of it as possible (which would be fun, though that seems like a cruel thing to say) or to just pick key happenings and allow the main story to move forward. 
> 
> One alternative I have considered is to write a separate piece detailing Madge's Hunger Games from start to finish (not in complete detail, but showing key moments for all tributes involved at least). That would allow me to let this particular story progress, only touching down on her Games when needed, and still portray the 76th Hunger Games in this AU. My mind tends to work on a "structure and organize" basis, so I've written details about all 24 tributes - their names, appearances, score, how and when they die, key events they are part of. I did that to help me keep track for the sake of continuity, but it would be sad to waste it. On the flip side, writing that whole thing up would take time away from the story proper.
> 
> Any thoughts from you guys? Would you prefer reading as much of it as possible within this main story, even if that brings the rest of the story to a slow-down? Or to read Madge's Games separately? Or do you not care all that much, and feel it's enough to just read the main events in this story?


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, full disclosure, this chapter is quite a bit... shall we say unfocused? By that I mean that I had three separate story threads that I bundled up together for one chapter, rather than expand enough on all three of them so that they could cover a chapter each. I'd rather keep the story moving forward, even if it means that this particular chapter feels disjointed. It's not too bad, I don't think, but fair warning nonetheless.
> 
> I want to thank everyone who gave their input after last chapter. I'm going to stick to the essentials of the 76th Games within the main story, plus a few extra bits here and there to just keep the story more glued together, and if I can find the time I'll write up Madge's Games as a separate story.

Morning comes. Together with Prim and my mother I sit down on the couch to watch the 76th Hunger Games begin. I feel almost nauseous, over and over trying to convince myself that Madge is not likely to die as early as the Cornucopia bloodbath. Why that is, I don't know. The only real reason I can think of is that I'm not prepared for that to happen, which is of course not a reason that holds any water. But if Peeta's theory is true and Madge has meticulously studied previous Games to find out what tactics have the best outcome I have to believe that that includes how to maximize your chances of getting through the first hours.

I barely hear a word that is said as Claudius Templesmith opens the show and drums up the excitement. I hear nothing of the talk about pre-Game excitement in the Capitol, or last-minute speculations about the outcome. I just want the damn thing to start already. Waiting around for the inevitable is devastatingly hard to do. The sooner the Games begin, the sooner they will end, and the sooner Madge might come home a victor. And if she is to die… I hate to think "let's just get it over with", but on some level I think I'd rather know one way or the other than keep living on the edge of something that might happen.

Finally it is time. The tributes are lifted onto their platforms placed around the cornucopia. The setting is underneath a large glass roof, slightly convex but not entirely dome-shaped. It's merely the roof that is made of glass; the walls are in faded pink brick and there are marble pillars supporting various parts of construction. Caesar Flickerman informs us all that the setting for the cornucopia is modelled after old stationhouses, which doesn't mean all that much to me since it's something I've only heard of but never seen. District 12's train station may be old, but not  _that_  kind of old. Through the glass ceiling sunlight shines in and reflects on the golden cornucopia, as per usual surrounded by various bags and crates and weapons. It seems to be a standard year as far as supplies go. Assorted weapons, foods and other supplies. I breathe a small sigh of relief, thinking back on the year when all the tributes had to fight with were maces. That is the only bit of relief I'm feeling. My whole body is trembling, and my pulse must be well over a hundred beats per minute. My mouth is as dry as a desert.

I see Madge on her platform. She is squinting in the bright light shining through the ceiling and reflecting off the cornucopia. Her blonde hair is arranged in a strict French braid, not a single strand out of place. She, just like the other tributes, is wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, coupled with an actually quite comfortable looking cardigan that reaches halfway down their thighs. There's a mockingjay pin on her cardigan, on the left side, just above her breast – just above her heart. Her district token. Madge and Eric have coal black cardigans while other district pairs have other colours or hues. It seems to be an urban theme for the Games this year and it makes me shudder. I've always had an easier time stomaching arenas set in wilderness, maybe because if so many children are to die they should at least get to do so while breathing fresh air and being surrounded by nature. The setting this year calls to mind the ruin city of a few years back, one of the most popular arenas but to me one of the most unsettling ones. The more civilized the setting, the clearer the barbary of the Games seems to be. The uncivilized murder fest shouldn't be set in an impersonation of civilization.

My mouth by now feels completely dry and I hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears as the clock counts down towards zero. The career tributes all assume positions to allow them to instantly sprint towards the cornucopia, while most of the younger tributes seem to be looking for a way to run. A few look indecisive. The boy from Nine, a seventeen-year-old who seemed awfully cocky during his interview, is visibly shaking, his teeth clattering and tears falling down his cheeks. I write him off as a goner unless he's playing the Johanna Mason ploy, which I doubt. Samantha, the twelve-year-old girl from District 11 who is this year's youngest competitor, is ghostly pale and has vomit stains on her sleeve. She looks ready to vomit again but doing so might actually trigger the landmines beneath her platform.

And then the counter reaches zero. The 76th Hunger Games have officially begun.

The six career tributes all immediately race towards the cornucopia and so do maybe eight or ten of the others. Carnage ensues instantaneously as they begin the battle over the supplies. Madge is among those who run for the cornucopia, but she doesn't go very close, grabbing the first thing she can reach and then stopping to look around, insecurity written on her face. Then her features settle into determination. She runs around the carnage, heading off behind the tail end of the large golden horn and then she is gone. Nobody follows her. Any tribute who chooses to run makes it out okay this year while the butchery ensues between those who stay and fight.

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. Madge is safe – for now. The other tributes are unlikely to come after her at this precise moment when there is still so much fighting to be done at the opening bloodbath. I relax a little, sinking back against the couch cushions. Slowly it seems like my heart stops pounding and resumes its normal, softer beats. I never feel at ease watching the Games but at least for the time being I don't feel any more anxious than normal.

But I can't stay. The moment I feel it's safe to head out to the woods without being detained by a peacekeeper if I should run into one, I'm off the couch and out the door. As I leave the house I hear my sister's voice ringing in my ears, calling out to me to stay and watch. I don't listen. I'll get to see the highlights tonight, anyway. I've been so worried for a week now, and for just this brief window of time I feel I can be a bit relaxed about Madge, knowing that she is unlikely to be targeted by anyone while the bloodbath is ensuing. I feel like I've been wound as tight as a bow string all week long, and now I can breathe, and it almost makes me panic.

* * *

I go hunting. What else is there to do? I can't sit around at home all day and stare at the screen. I need to do something to distract myself. There's nothing I can do to help Madge in that arena, so I might as well not even try; might as well try and save myself from the pain of constantly thinking about it. And it works, to a degree. I spend the better part of three hours tracking my prey through the woods and on my way back towards the fences I stop and gather as much edible vegetation as I can carry with me. Only when I reach the spot where most of the wild strawberries grow do I hesitate, unable to bring myself to pick any today.

When I crawl underneath the fence to get back to the Meadow I've got my bag filled with a small wild boar – a baby, pretty much – and a pheasant, along with a leather pouch filled with blackberries, an assortment of herbs for my mother and sister to sort through and even some wild carrots. The boar is only halfway in the bag, too big to fit entirely, the rest of it flung over my shoulder. I head straight for the butcher and sell it, getting a small part of the meat as well as a decent bit of money. Under any other circumstances I would have been excited but I'm finding it just a touch difficult to be delighted right now. With the boar taken care of I go to the bakery with the intention of selling the carrots. I love wild carrots and would normally keep them for my own table but after Peeta told me they use them in baking I've begun to trade them from time to time. I'm more in the mood for a pair of fresh bread loaves than I am for carrots today, anyway. Not that I'm in the mood for much of anything. My appetite seems to have gone away, along with the desire to do anything, really. But just like I need to find something to occupy myself with, I need to eat – and Prim needs to eat – and bread will be better for us than a sheaf of carrots.

When the back door to the bakery opens, answering my knock, it is Peeta on the other end. The sight of him almost makes me smile. It's not often that Peeta gets the door but I'm always glad when it is, especially now when I could use a friendly face. But when he sees me his features immediately show concern, and he wipes his hands on a towel to rid them of flour or dough, or whatever he gets on them when he works.

"Hey," he says. "You okay? Rough day, huh?"

Immediately a knot forms in my stomach. Is he implying that something has happened to Madge while I was out in the woods? I force myself to calm down. If she had been seriously hurt – or killed – he would have had something more compassionate or profound to say than "rough day".

"It's going to be a rough Hunger Games," I reply hoarsely, fidgeting where I stand.

"Yeah…" He looks over his shoulder. From what I can tell only his brother is in the kitchen with him. "Was it very difficult to watch the opening of the Games?"

"What do you think, Peeta?" I ask dryly.

"I know. Sorry."

I keep shifting my weight from one foot to the other, feeling strange all over. Mostly I feel guilty. It's hard to meet someone's eyes when feeling this way.

"I couldn't sit at home and watch all day," I admit to him. "I figure she's pretty safe at the moment. People are usually a bit exhausted right after the cornucopia bloodbath. It should buy her some time."

"It was pretty mild this year," says Peeta. "For a bloodbath." The way he says it leaves no room to wonder if he finds it a bizarre thing to say. It reminds me of how he says one of his favourite words is  _oxymoronic_. "Seven tributes killed."

"Only seven?"

He nods.

"Eric was one."

I close my eyes and draw a deep breath through my nose. The worst part is I don't really care. I can't handle caring about more than one tribute this year. A young boy from the Seam is dead and I won't be crying over him or feeling sad. I'm not sure I will give it much thought at all.

"I guess I'll get to see it all unfold at the broadcast tonight," I mumble, opening my eyes and brushing a stray bit of hair behind my ear.

"So, you brought us something?" says Peeta after a moment's silence, feigning cheerfulness. I'm thankful for his attempt at focusing on something else for a minute. "My father isn't here but I'm authorized to barter in his place."

The faint hint of a smile crosses my lips at how official he makes it sound. Grabbing my game bag I begin to rifle through it, taking the pheasant by its talons and lifting it up to have it out of the way while I search for the carrots. I'm distracted by a faint whistle from Peeta, causing me to look up.

"You shot a pheasant?"

"Yeah?" I say, dumbfounded by his reaction. It's not like they're some mythical creature near impossible to fell.

"I love pheasant," he says, his eyes indeed lighting up at the sight of the bird. "Not quite as much as I like quail, but I love it all the same."

"You've…  _had_ pheasant?" I question.

"You traded a few with my father, maybe four years back or so. I still remember how they tasted. Kind of been wanting to taste them again ever since…"

"Then why haven't you simply asked me to shoot one?" I ask, not sure if I'm amused or confused.

"I, uh… Well, it didn't seem right to… I wasn't sure you'd think it was okay."

"Peeta hurry up!" his brother calls from inside the kitchen. Peeta looks over his shoulder and then back at me and I falter. I had planned on myself, my mother and Prim having the pheasant tonight but if Peeta wants to have one so badly…

"What are you willing to give me for the bird?" I ask. I have a bit of pork in my bag and with the money I traded for the rest of the boar I can buy something else for us to eat for dinner.

"Name your price." He folds his arms and leans against the doorpost in a casual manner, a small smile on his face.

"It's worth a lot," I challenge.

"I should think so. Name your price."

"Five loaves of bread. And a bag of cookies."

"Done." The way he so easily agrees to the trade takes me by surprise. "Just hold on a minute and I'll get the bread. You want all five to be raisin-nut? And the cookies, anything you want in particular?"

"Surprise me," I manage.

He chuckles softly, despite everything, and goes into the kitchen. His brother gives him a questioning face but Peeta says something to him in a low voice and the older Mellark boy nods and grabs a bowl and stirs its contents. I stand there by the door, waiting, drinking in the lovely smells that always fill the bakery kitchen. I wonder how these people can work here all day long, every day of the week, and not leave trails of drool wherever they go. I for one would not be able to be surrounded with so many delicious treats and wonderful smells and sell everything off to others. To pass the time I entertain myself with the thought that perhaps being in this environment all day long without getting to eat your fill is the reason why Mrs. Mellark is so unpleasant.

"Okay, here we are." Peeta's voice brings me back to reality. He holds out a pair of large paper bags and under normal circumstances my mouth would have watered at the thought of the bread inside. I have a funny feeling though that today most everything will taste like ash. Just as well, then, that I traded the pheasant. "Two raisin-nut, two cheese bun loaves and one walnut. And assorted cookies."

"Thank you," I say, taking the bags.

"Thank  _you_ ," he replies with a smile. "Can't wait to taste this bird."

I try to force a smile, but it comes off as a grimace. I turn to leave but stop myself and move to face him again.

"Peeta…"

"Yeah?"

"Oh hurry up with it!" his brother complains from further back in the room. Instead of feeling embarrassed I just feel irritated.

"Just a second, Rye," says Peeta, giving his brother a quick look. His brother mutters something under his breath and I don't care to know what it is.

"Actually I was wondering…" I say, not sure where I'm finding the strength and courage to say what I'm about to say. "It's a big pheasant. They're not all that common."

"You mean it's worth more?" Thankfully he doesn't sound irritated.

"Yeah, uh, I was thinking…" I hesitate and avert my eyes for a second. Unfortunately they land on Ryean who looks quite irritated and that gives me the incentive to just say what I want to say. "Maybe, if you don't mind… You could come over tonight and keep me company? You know, for the broadcast? I told Prim she should spend the evening with her friend and my mother, well…" I draw a deep breath and let it out in a huff. "Some company would be nice, is what I'm trying to say."

"I'll be there fifteen minutes before the broadcast starts," says Peeta. "Sound good?"

I nod, drawing a trembling breath. Without further ado I turn and hurry off towards home before Peeta's brother decides to throw me out. I have a weird knot in my stomach but also a sense of relief. I told Prim to visit her friend in the evening because I don't want her to have to hold my hand while I watch the Games, but I've been worrying how I will be able to handle watching it by myself. Knowing Peeta is going to be there makes it all seem a little bit easier to deal with.

* * *

"So how was the bird?" I ask that evening as Peeta and I sit down on the couch, the television already on in the background.

"Oh, I didn't get to eat it yet." He smiles crookedly. "Scotti is having dinner with his fiancée's family tonight and we decided to save it until the whole family could enjoy it."

I nod and shrug, shifting to find a more comfortable position. I wish I had something more to offer him than just some tea – with no sugar but a bit of cold water. He seemed almost too pleased when I handed him the mug, just on the verge of making me feel patronized. Now he's holding it between both hands, sipping from it every minute or two.

"Your parents don't mind that you're here?" I ask, mostly just to pass the time before the broadcast starts.

"No." I expected some form of elaboration, but I get none. "So how was the rest of your day?"

"Great," I reply dryly. "Couldn't be better. How about yours?"

Truth be told I don't really care, and I'm sure he knows it, but he talks about it anyway. It helps keep my mind off of things for the remaining few minutes until the broadcast starts. He talks a bit over Claudius and Caesar, for which I'm thankful, because their vapid shallowness might drive me crazy. Then he quiets when they begin to show footage of the bloodbath. Eric's death is barely shown, just another tribute whose throat is slit. I can't decide if I'm relieved that they didn't dwell on the moment, or if that makes it worse. Once the segment from the bloodbath is over they move on to talk about the arena itself, the alliances that are forming, and any other things of interest that have transpired. It's been an eventful day, that much is obvious.

I study the arena carefully, an uncomfortable feeling lodged in the pit of my stomach. Caesar and Claudius call it "post-contemporary", which makes Peeta snort and claim that their choice of term is both moronic and oxymoronic. I agree with him completely. It's supposedly modelled after urban areas before the Dark Ages which begs the question how it can be considered  _contemporary_  by any stretch of the imagination. Or how anything can be  _post_ -contemporary, for that matter.

"My guess is they don't know what either of those words mean," I say dryly. "Or they found a thesaurus and don't know how to use it. Possibly a  _pre-contemporary_  thesaurus."

"Maybe. Do you think they meant to say  _post-apocalyptic_?"

"No doubt they would call it  _pre_ -post-apocalyptic."

I find out that Madge escaped the bloodbath by running towards an exit of the enclosed cornucopia space. The exit in question has a large glass carousel door flanked by glass walls, making it impossible to sneak in our out without being seen. Not that anyone was paying attention to the doors at that point in time. Madge just happened to be the first tribute to use that exit and everyone else was busy either slaughtering or avoiding being slaughtered. Having the Games begin indoors is a new feature, the cornucopia placed in an old stationhouse at the centre of a city structure. Unlike the ruin city of a few years back this arena still has buildings that are intact, only they are very much worse for wear. We are informed by our hosts that the city structure is made to resemble what cities might have looked like in the early 21st century, with lots of asphalt, lots of multi-storey buildings and only a few green areas. There are abandoned playgrounds and basketball courts, dark alleyways, two parks – one small and one bigger –and everywhere there are buildings. Some of these buildings are little more than facades, having no rooms or even upper floors even though the walls and windows reach several stories tall. Other buildings have apartments, some even furnished with worn and dirty couches and tables and flower pots and so forth. Not all buildings are multi-storey. There's one meant to resemble a school house, located amongst a collection of small houses in an area Claudius dubs "the suburb". Across from the stationhouse there's even a church building, reminding us of one of the many religions that didn't survive the natural disasters and the rebellion that eventually followed. Some of the buildings have graffiti on them, others have broken windows or rusty fire escapes. Plenty of space to hide and plenty of space to hunt. Not that there's anything to hunt but humans. There seems to be no animals of any kind, not even birds.

The oddest thing by far in the arena is the track that runs about fifteen meters up in the air, called a monorail. It runs through many places in the arena and connects to a number of small stations, accessible through climbing hills or trees or sometimes the structure of the stations. The whole purpose is for it to seem abandoned and partially destroyed so it won't be very easy to get up there, but those that do will have a clear advantage. At least in theory. You can probably see a whole lot from up there that you can't see down amongst the tall buildings, but you are also plainly visible yourself once you venture from the stations and onto the tracks, which are wide enough for a person to walk on without having to rely on balance. I'm not so sure I'd risk going out there. The monorail tracks all connect to the stationhouse, the one place where you can easily access the tracks via a staircase, and there is an actual train running from there. I definitely wouldn't want to be caught up there on the tracks when the train is approaching. In that situation you are limited to two options – jump to your death, or best-case scenario to broken bones, or be crushed by the oncoming train.

To emphasise how desolate and unpleasant the arena is the tributes have only gotten a few hours of sunlight today. Caesar Flickerman assures us that there will be a normal amount of daylight come morning, but for this first day the darkness helps set the mood. Not that I have ever been in an arena myself, but I cannot imagine that you would need the help of darkness to feel dreary in there.

As Peeta already informed me the death count wasn't particularly high at the initial bloodbath. Most years see at least ten tributes fall in that opening struggle. However it seems that an unusual alliance has formed this year. Both hosts are giddy with excitement over this new turn of events and Peeta sighs heavily at their silly crooning.

"This development is brilliant.  _Brilliant_!" praises Caesar, emphasising the point with an exuberant wave of his hand.

"Well that's one way to put it," sighs Peeta, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Can't wait to find out what this brilliant development is," I say, rolling my eyes as I make the false statement.

"Oh you're going to love it. It's  _brilliant_."

Peeta's sarcastic tone manages to lighten the mood just a little bit but then the two hosts continue their ecstatic rambling and I'm back to wanting to crawl out of my skin. The twist of events that thrills them so much is that the traditional career alliance didn't happen this year. There is an alliance but it's between seven boys. The three career boys and the ones from Six, Seven, Nine and Eleven. As it seems, they formed some kind of bond during training and the boys from One, Two and Four turned on their female co-tributes, letting them believe they had the traditional career alliance but all the while making other plans. In fact the girl from Two was the first casualty of the 76th Hunger Games; in an all-too-ironic move that was most likely intentionally played as such by the perpetrator she was stabbed in the back with a butcher's knife by her district partner. The other two career girls were also killed at the bloodbath, along with both tributes from Three, the girl from Six and District 12's Eric Riven. The boys of the new alliance – the Boy Pack as they are dubbed by the unimaginative hosts – have found themselves a headquarters in a building within eyesight of the stationhouse. The church, in fact. There they sit and congratulate themselves on being masters of the Games and invincible and, according to themselves, the only actual threat in the arena. Knowing Madge will have to face these seven boys worries me and I almost look forward to seeing them turn on each other. No, scratch that, I  _do_ look forward to it. The sooner the better.

"Do you think she's got a chance?" asks Peeta in a voice that's low, soft and vulnerable. He's looking at me with sadness but also with a willingness to hope. His arms are still crossed, and it almost looks like it's a self-protecting stance.

"I do," I nod. Then I nod with more fervour and my voice gains strength. "I do, I most certainly do. Those boys are arrogant as hell, even worse than the typical career packs tend to be. She can exploit that, turn them against each other. I think she's smart enough to do it. We believe she's studied past games to find patterns, right? She might know the most likely way to turn people in alliances against each other."

"Does she have it in her to kill? If it were to come to that?"

I give the question some serious thought – and not for the first time. Had you asked me before the Reaping I would have been absolutely sure the answer was  _no_. But knowing what I know now about her aunt, not to mention seeing the determination in her eyes, I've begun to seriously rethink the matter. I don't think Madge Undersee will go down without a fight.

"If she has to, then yes," I say. "Yes I think she does."

* * *

Later that evening as I prepare to get into bed with Prim I think about it yet again. Would Madge Undersee be capable of taking another human being's life in order to survive the Hunger Games? Does she have an underlying determination and strength that I never knew about?

"How do you feel?" asks Prim timidly, pulling her worn nightgown – it was mine once upon a time and has been slept in for well over a thousand nights – over her head. "It must have been such a difficult day for you today."

"I'm fine," I say in a monotone. "Given the circumstances."

"Everybody talks about Madge at school," offers Prim, climbing into bed. She sleeps closest to the wall; I don't want her falling out of bed if she rolls around in her sleep. "Though today they talked more about Eric…" Her face falls as she lies down and fluffs her pillow. "His brother and sisters were sent home from school when…" She swallows hard. "Well, his oldest sister insisted on staying. But it was terrible, Katniss. Nobody wanted to talk to her all day, nobody-"

"She should have gone home," I interrupt. I don't want to hear another word about Eric Riven. He's dead now. Probably for the best. He was never going to win, so why extend the process? Why let him suffer, starve and thirst for days, before it's finally over? "She shouldn't have stayed and showcased her loss."

"That's not what she was doing," objects Prim.

I say nothing, sullenly climbing in beside my sister, grabbing the comforter to pull it up over us. It's been one hell of a day, and although Madge made it through the beginning without any problems she is now in constant mortal danger, all around the clock, and will continue to be until the Games are over. I can wake up tomorrow morning and find that she died during the night.

"I just wish these Games would be over," I mutter, staring at the ceiling. "I hope they won't drag on for weeks."

"I didn't know Peeta was going to be here," says Prim, lying on her side, studying me intently. "When I got home this evening… You didn't tell me he was coming over."

"Well, he did come over," I say awkwardly. Is this what we're going to talk about instead? "He's… my friend now." I sigh, turning my eyes down to my hands, resting on top of the comforter. "The only friend I have."

"You have me," says Prim, somewhat cheerfully.

"That I do, little duck," I say with a light laugh, turning my head to look at her. "Thank God for that. But it's nice having a friend who isn't a family member, you know?"

"Is he going to be coming by often?"

"I don't know… Maybe…"

"He's nice. You should invite him over more often."

"Go to sleep now," I say, mock-sternly, giving her a look and a raised eyebrow.

She smiles smugly but obediently closes her eyes and yawns. I turn my face back towards the ceiling, eyeing it silently as I wait for sleep to come. I thought I would be more tightly wound, unable to get any form of rest, but perhaps it's the days on end of being on edge, culminating today in the Games beginning, that makes me exhausted and sleepy. It doesn't take long for my own eyes to flutter close. And when I begin to drift off to sleep it's not my best friend in the arena who is on my mind, but my new friend who watches the Hunger Games with me.

* * *

Three days go by. Madge has been able to get enough water to drink and at least something to eat, by discovering that in some of the apartments there are refrigerators that have water, and sometimes food, in them. She is not the only one to have made this discovery. The girls from District 7 and 11, and the boy from District 8, make the same discovery in other areas of the arena. One of them also noticed that there's a fountain in one of the parks, but at the moment there's no water in it. If it starts to rain, and the rain keeps up for long enough, then... It also turns out that there are a few rodents running around in the parks, rabbits and squirrels and rats, and birds have begun to appear in the sky. All good signs in my eyes. Unfortunately I don't think Madge knows how to hunt, and some of the other tributes might, so the animal life doesn't benefit her primarily. Perhaps the mayor's mild-mannered daughter is apt at stealing and could take game from other tributes who've managed to fell something. It's not a nice deed, but when it's a matter of life and death it's just the way it is. All is fair in love, war and the Hunger Games.

The guys holding up in their headquarters have almost all of the cornucopia supplies so they don't need to go looking for supplies elsewhere, though they spend a bit of time every day sitting around and congratulating each other on having collected what they believe to be almost everything edible and drinkable in the arena. They expect their competitors to start dying of thirst soon, or at least be weakened by lack of food and water and become easier targets. They don't paint themselves up to be particularly brave for wanting their competitors weakened before the kill, but that detail seems to elude them.

One fatality does occur due to lack off supplies. On the third day Angela Maize, a sixteen-year-old girl from District 9, dies of thirst after having failed to find anything to drink since the start of the Games. On the second day the sun is broiling in the sky, advancing her dehydration, and she spends hours frantically trying to find something to drink, the physical activity also exacerbating the poor girl's thirst. It's a difficult way to die, and I can only pray that Madge will be able to find water continuously throughout the show's run.

Other than this not a lot of excitement goes on in this early stage of the Games. The boy pack eventually divides themselves up into groups of three – one to stay and guard the headquarters, two to go out and hunt and kill. Page McKeen, the girl from District 6, is starting to impress by not only having found supplies, but on the second day climbing up onto the monorail track through the structure of one of the stations. She walks out onto the track itself and looks around but doesn't stay out there for very long before retreating inside the station house. Madge lays low for the most part during these first early days, exploring her surroundings and – I want to believe – planning her strategy for the duration of the Games. Only one kill takes place during these first days after the bloodbath, and it worries me a bit. The most dangerous thing for the tributes collectively is if the gamemakers start to worry that the viewers are bored. That's when they begin to get creative with their traps, and you never know who might get caught up in the crossfire.

* * *

It's almost impossible to be at home during the day. Prim is at school and Mother is hidden away in her bedroom feeling sorry for herself. I don't even see her at all for the first five days of the Games, impossible as it may seem, because she doesn't even come out to eat with her daughters in the evening. Prim has to take a tray with food to her, since I refuse to do it. I've spent the past six years doing her job for her, putting food on the table, taking care of my sister. Now, when I need my mother's support the most, she is only consumed with herself. And why? How is this at all difficult for  _her_? This could even be a golden opportunity for her to rally and pull herself together, having somebody else to focus on right now – her own damn child! But I know better than to hope or expect anything from her.

When we finally run into one another when she is on her way back from the bathroom, I can't keep quiet. She looks almost like she did in the worst days after Father died – hair greasy and dirty, eyes sunken in, her face pale and hollow, her whole stance hunched over – but I can't feel any sympathy. She's wallowing in whatever it is that she's upset about. She could choose to pull herself together and take care of her youngest daughter and, more to the point, support her oldest daughter. After everything I've done over the years, she can't be there for me now? Fine. But then she can go look for understanding from me where neither sun nor moon can shine.

"So you've finally emerged?" I say icily, stopping her on her way back to bed by simply standing in her way in the narrow hallway.

"Katniss, not now," she says in a hollow voice.

"Oh, of course not," I scoff. "No, you've got yourself to feel sorry for. Can't be a mother right now, can you? It's really fortunate that motherhood is one of those things you can just press 'pause' with and your kids will just stop needing things until you're ready to be a mom again."

"Katniss…"

"Why are you even like this?" I had decided I would talk rationally to her when I finally got the chance, ask her what is going on with her and calmly explain why I feel she's let me down. But I can't. I'm too upset, feeling too let down. In truth I want her to feel bad. I want her to know what a terrible mother she's being to me. I can't pity her. How many seconds has she spent pitying me since this whole thing began? She's the one failing spectacularly – why should I always have to be the adult between us? I'm her  _child_. "My best friend is in the arena and you act like  _you_  are the one who's been struck by this. Did you even know Madge? Have you ever spoken two words to her? What the hell gives you the right to-"

"I don't know Madge," she cuts me off, her voice weak but somehow carrying. She closes her eyes, shivers, and a tear falls down her cheek. It only serves to make me angrier. She opens her eyes again and looks down at the floor. "I knew her aunt. I knew Maysilee." There's a pause, and her whole body trembles now, her arms wrapping around herself. "Maysilee Donner was one of my best friends when I was your age and watching her in the arena during the second Quarter Quell was the worst thing I had experienced – until your father died." She swallows, and another tear falls down her cheek. "Madge looks so much like her. Her mother and Maysilee were twins, so that's only natural I guess. But seeing her… seeing her in the arena now, too, is like… It's like Maysilee all over again. Everything, every bad memory, just comes flooding back. And her poor mother… Oh that poor woman!"

She begins to openly sob now, wiping away tears every few seconds. I stand there wordlessly for a few minutes, just watching her, trying to comprehend what she is telling me. She's obviously expecting me to feel sorry for her, but that's not the emotion I'm experiencing.

"This is unbelievable," I breathe.

"Katniss…" pleads Mother. She snivels and reaches out a hand to me. "I know you understand."

" _Understand_?" I don't know whether to laugh or cry or rage, so I settle for scoffing and shaking my head decisively. "I'm supposed to understand? What about you, huh? How come you can't understand? If anything, you should know better than anybody what I'm going through right now. But are you there for me? After everything I've done over the years, for you, for Prim, for  _us_ , are you giving something back to me? Putting your own feelings aside and consoling  _me_?" I can't seem to stop myself once I've begun to rant. Mother has pulled back her hand, and her crying has intensified, but again it does nothing to garner sympathy for her. It only makes me more furious. "Why can't you ever  _be there_  for me, huh? I am your  _daughter_ , aren't you supposed to set aside your own crap and make sure that I'm okay? How can you let me down now, of all times, if you know first-hand what I'm going through? You know first-hand, and yet all you can think about is your own damn self."

"Katniss, please," she sobs, taking a step towards me, but I back away.

"Don't speak to me," I say icily. To my surprise, tears begin to fall from my own eyes. "Don't you even try… It's too late now. Do you understand? I am done with you. You've been a terrible mother, and now that you've got your chance to step up and  _do your job_ , it's once again all about you. And you're supposed to be a  _healer_." I snivel, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. I hate that I'm crying too right now, but there's no stopping it. It's more from anger than from anything else, anyway. "And yeah, speaking of that, you can't even try to put food on the table right now, so it once again falls on me. If you feel too upset to do that right now, how can you place it on  _my_  shoulders? One of us has got to do it or Prim will starve, and you are selfish and cruel to force it onto me. Oh my God, if Father knew that all you do is let me down…"

"Katniss, no," she pleads. I can see where she might feel I went too far by invoking him, but I don't feel bad about it. I don't feel bad because I honestly believe it's the truth. My father, if he watches over us and knows what is happening with us, would probably never forgive her for failing his children this way.

"You can go to hell," I tell her, more tears of anger falling down my cheeks, wetting my shirt. "Go back to your bed and wallow in your misery, and don't spend one thought worrying about the daughter who is going through worse than you are right now and needed her mother. I needed you to be there for me." I find myself scoffing at her. "But I don't anymore. What's the use? I'll never depend on you for anything, ever again."

Turning on my heel I stride away from her, ignoring that she calls out to me several times. I'm done with her. I have no sympathy left. I leave the house, slamming the door shut behind me, too angry to be in her vicinity.

First I head for the Meadow, my anger only seeming to build as I walk briskly, but at least the tears subside. Out of nowhere I suddenly think of Mrs. Mellark, whom I've always thought of as such a poor mother. Now I wonder if my own mother isn't just as much of a failure, only in a different way. From what I've been told this past year Mrs. Mellark at least cares for her sons in some ways, looking after them when they're sick, worrying about them. My mother just hides away and thinks of her daughters as people who should put their own pain aside to cater to hers. It's supposed to be the other way around. Mothers are supposed to set their own heartache, pain, discomfort aside and put the needs of their children first. What the hell did my father ever see in her? He was too good for her, that's for sure. All these years I've looked down on Mrs. Mellark for being a terrible mother, while my own is no better. No better at all.

The thoughts of Mrs. Mellark turn my mind towards her son. Peeta. Suddenly I long for him. I can't tell him all about what I'm feeling right now, but if I could just spend some time with him I think I would feel better. I need to be with someone who cares about me, who is there for me, and the only other person is Prim, who is still in school. Even if she wasn't I'm not sure I want to put her in the middle of this. I know it's the middle of the day and Peeta is no doubt busy working at the bakery, but he did say I can come to him whenever. If he didn't really mean that, I'd rather know right away.

When I reach the bakery it turns out to be Scotti who answers my knock – I think. I'm still not entirely able to tell Peeta's brothers apart when they're not all together. But the lack of a disapproving glare suggests to me that it isn't Ryean, and that leaves only Scotti. He does seem surprised that I arrive without a game bag, but there's no judgment in his eyes.

"I need to see Peeta," I say bluntly. "Is he here?"

Scotti raises his eyebrows pointedly but turns without a word and walks back inside the kitchen and through the door to the shop. A moment later Peeta comes walking through the door and hurries through the kitchen and out into the alleyway where I'm standing, fidgeting. He closes the kitchen door behind him and looks at me with concern.

"Is everything alright? Did something happen in the Games? I've been so busy behind the counter that I haven't-"

"It's not Madge," I assure him, shifting my weight between my feet. "Not directly, anyway. It's just…" I close my eyes hard and sigh, shaking my head. Then I suddenly feel absolutely ridiculous, and I laugh at myself as I open my eyes again. "I'm sorry Peeta. I shouldn't have come here like this." I raise both my hands to my cheeks, then to my temples. "Urgh, I'm such an idiot."

He walks right up to me and pulls me close, his arms so soothing and comforting, his body so steady and secure.

"Hey…" he says soothingly. "You're not an idiot. You're a person under tremendous amount of stress." He pulls back, kissing my cheek, remaining very close to me even though his arms are no longer around me. "How have these past days been?"

"Terrible," I say with a sigh. "Madge is hanging on, but I can't seem to relax at all. And my mother…" I swallow hard and look down on the ground. I came here to be in his proximity, not to talk about what's going on at home. Talking is futile anyway, there's no way on earth I'll be able to put my thoughts, feelings and concerns into understandable sentences. Yet I  _have_  to talk about this or I will explode inside. "I don't get it, Peeta. She knew Maysilee Donner, Madge's aunt. Shouldn't that mean that she would be there for me even more? Knowing exactly what I'm going through?"

"I don't know," he says simply. "You certainly deserve that. But people who are broken…"

"But what if  _I_  become broken?" I ask, looking up at him. "What then? Who's going to take care of Primrose if Madge dies and that breaks me, too?"

"But you're not going to break," he says calmly. "You're going to be alright."

I take a few deep breaths to calm myself. I don't want to talk about my mother anymore. I think I've gotten the worst of it out of my system and now I want to talk about something,  _anything_ ¸ else.

"I'm sorry I bothered you in the middle of your working," I say awkwardly.

"That's alright. It's been a slow day anyway."

"Liar. You just said you've been too busy to keep up with the Games. If that's true then things must be uncommonly busy."

"They can make do without me. They have every other year, when I've been in school during the day. Hang on, just give me a minute. Wait here."

He disappears back inside the bakery, and I stand there waiting for him. It doesn't escape me that apparently his family can offer enough understanding that they let him leave for the day in order to offer support to a friend in need while my own mother can't think about her daughter for long enough to not put herself first right now. Odd, how suddenly the baker's family seems to me like they are so much more caring and understanding than my own mother.

Peeta comes back out after a couple of minutes, smiling slightly in an encouraging way.

"I've got forty-five minutes," he says. "Want to go somewhere? The Meadow?"

"The Meadow sounds good," I nod. Then I scowl. "No, you know what? Let's go home to my place. I don't want to hide away somewhere. I should get to be at home, and if my mother is uncomfortable, then screw her."

His eyes widen at the last part, but he says nothing about it. He nods and follows me as I take the lead. Going to my home means we'll have less time because he'll need about fifteen minutes for the walk back home, even if he walks fast. But I don't care. It's partially about making a statement to my mother. To show her what it means to be there for somebody. I walk briskly to ensure that we have as much time as possible to talk once we get there, and Peeta doesn't question, just follows beside me. Neither of us speak until we're there. I open the door and let him in, not bothering to call out to my mother and announce our presence. I haven't done so in a week, anyway. Besides, I know she's back in her bed, feeling sorry for herself. Feeling like the victim.

"So you've had a pretty bad day, huh?" says Peeta once we are inside.

"Try a pretty bad month," I sigh. "Peeta, I don't know what to do anymore!" I walk inside the living room, him in tow, and gesture to the couch with my hand, inviting him to sit. "Not even being out in the woods seems to help. I'm so frustrated, so frightened, so…  _ugh_!"

"I wish I knew how to help," he says, sitting down on the armrest of the couch. "You deserve better than this. I just don't have the first idea what to do, and how to make someone feel better when their friend is in the arena."

"See, and this is why it would have been nice if my mother had bothered to care," I say, lowering my voice because even though I hate her right now I'm not sure I want her to overhear. There's no need to be mean just for the sake of spite. "She actually knows what it feels like!"

"Well… maybe… maybe that's a reason why she hides away," offers Peeta slowly. "Because there's nothing she  _can_  say or do. And she knows it. And it's hard for her to know you're going through it, and that there's nothing she can do to help you."

"Oh, stop that," I snort. "Don't be all 'looking at it from her perspective'. That's not what I need. I need for you to be on my side."

"I am."

"Yeah, I know," I sigh. "I just feel so… powerless. It's so difficult to watch Madge in the Games every day and not be able to do a thing to help her!"

"Yeah, I get that," he nods.

I pace back and forth, I fidget, I can't keep still. I'm filled with the feral need to  _do something_ , to  _act_  and not just observe. There's only one thing I can think of to do to help Madge, but I can't do it by myself, nor can I do it with the help of just a handful of people. I need a large group of people to contribute and that is where I run into trouble. I think maybe I can get the people I know to help me out but what about the people that I  _don't_  know?

"I want to help Madge!" I tell Peeta, needing to vent my thoughts and my frustration. "I want to gather enough money to send her a sponsor gift in the arena."

Peeta hops down from the couch, his face calm and serious.

"How can I help?"

For a moment I almost forget the problem at hand, and even my friend who is fighting for her life in that arena. His immediate offer to help me, showing no hesitation whatsoever, makes me feel so warm and happy inside, even with everything that's happened today. A smile spreads across my face and he gives me a bashful smile in return. Oh how I wish I knew the way to tell him how much I admire him for his kindness, his generosity, his wonderfully good heart. Instead I begin talking about what I ought to be talking about.

"It's going to cost a lot of money. I can get people in the Seam to pitch in, I think. But we'll need more money than I can raise that way. Do you think you could get some people from town to contribute?" I know it won't be the easiest sell. Money is tight even for merchants, and sponsor gifts are expensive from the start and only getting costlier as the days go by.

"I think it can be arranged. She's the mayor's daughter," says Peeta.

"Yes," I nod, "and I don't want him or his wife to be involved. I want to surprise them too, let them know people care about their daughter. But anyway, we can't go knocking on his door and ask him to sponsor a gift to her this way."

"I'll convince some people to help out. And I can tell them that if twenty people each pitch in we'll end up with enough. If forty pitch in we each have to give less. Of course, it depends on the gift. What did you have in mind?"

"Strawberries. Madge loves strawberries."

"You are incredible Katniss; do you know that?" The compliment comes so unexpectedly that it makes me blush and makes my heart swell in my chest. Maybe he doesn't mean it more than as a general compliment of me wanting to help my friend, but it feels like more than that. I know I want it to mean more than that. After the day I've had it's like balm to the soul. It feels so very good to hear the words come out of his mouth that I soak each syllable up like a sponge. And the best part is that he isn't even finished yet. "Putting all this effort into doing something like that for your friend says a lot about your character. I admire you. Truly I do."

I smile at him, blushing, unable to comprehend that I'm suddenly feeling  _good_.

"So does this mean you'll help me?" I say, knowing what the answer will be before I even ask the question.

"You can count on me."

"That's the thing, Peeta…" I say with a soft smile. "I already think I do. About most everything."

He returns the smile.

"Good."

* * *

I wake up screaming, escaping from a dream about Madge exploding in the mines – a familiar dream, but this time starring her and not my father. It's not the first nightmare I've had about Madge dying since this all started, and Prim has taken to sleeping with our mother, frightened by my frequent screaming fits in the dead of night. Not that our mother is much better sleeping company – she has nightmares, too, but she doesn't wake with a startle and a scream. Instead she cries herself awake, or sobs through her sleep.

I don't blame my sister for taking refuge in another bed, but I miss her when I wake up like this. I miss the comfort of another human being beside me in the darkness. The comfort of having the one person I know that I love be there beside me, safe and sound. For Prim's sake Mother and I ought to be the ones to share a bed, since neither of us gets much quality sleep anyhow. At least then Prim could get a full night's rest. But there is no way I'm sleeping next to my mother – I haven't since my father died, anyway. But I should consider sleeping on the couch and letting Prim have the bed. She's got enough to put up with as it is right now, the least I can do is help her sleep at night.

Turning to lie on my side I feel tears falling down my cheeks. The nightmare is slowly loosening its grip on me, but I know that another one won't be far behind. If not tonight, or tomorrow, then the day after that. So far I've seen Madge die in about five different ways in my nightmares. Twice I dreamt that Prim was somehow thrown into the arena with her, and in one of those dreams the two of them had to face off against each other. Once I dreamt that Peeta was in the arena, too, as Madge's district partner. It seems like the only person I care about who hasn't been in the Hunger Games in my dreams of late is Gale.

It's been over a week now since the 76th Hunger Games began. Still no visit from Gale. I can't go knocking on his door, and I don't want to be rejected, so until he comes to me I have to make do without him. By now though there's a part of me that's beginning to wonder if Peeta had a point with what he said. If Gale was truly my friend, oughtn't he to forget about our ruined relationship just for the duration of the Games? Does he really hate me so much that he can't show me any support, or at least show me that he sympathises with me? It's not that I need it especially, it's what his absence represents. It's depressing to realize how few people I have in my corner, but at the same time the two people I do have are better than anyone could ever hope for.

But as far as Gale is concerned, the more I think it over the more I begin to question what kind of a friend he really is. Or if any of this is his fault at all. Maybe I'm the terrible friend. Maybe what I did was so over the line that not even the strongest friendship could endure it? I wish I could tell Peeta everything and get his thoughts on the matter, but there's no way I could do that. He's the one friend I've got now. I can't risk losing his good opinion of me.

Because if I lose Peeta, what do I have left?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katniss both says and thinks things concerning her mother in this chapter that aren't exactly true (for instance implying that her mother doesn't take care of her daugthers when they are sick), which is something that is very true to life. I think we've all done it - probably many times, at that. When we are that upset with someone we tend to suck at objectivity. I'm mentioning it here to point out that while some of the things she says are valid, not everything is true, and Katniss herself doesn't believe so either.
> 
> As for the conflict itself it's not just about Mrs. Everdeen's behaviour in the past couple of chapters. At least in this story, Katniss has been carrying around bits of resentment and feelings of abandonment for years and this is where it all comes to its head. You probably noticed that there are some things that are repeated throughout the chapter; that's not me forgetting what I've already written but Katniss dwelling on some of the issues that are particularly sore with her. It's a bit of a risk to write it that way - it's common to dwell like that IRL but not all such things make for good storytelling or a good reading experience. I wanted to do it that way to show her thought process, and some of the things that she's the most hurt about.
> 
> Feedback is appreciated, as always. =)


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